


Secunda Rising

by DisenchantedReality



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Deviates From Canon, Drug Use, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Murder, Slow Burn, Thieves Guild, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-07 12:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17365529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisenchantedReality/pseuds/DisenchantedReality
Summary: Minerva lived nearly her entire life in the Imperial City until one night when a chance encounter with a client would change her life forever. Forced to flee to Skyrim, she finds herself caught up in a web of murderers, thieves, and traffickers. Between Daedric influences and a certain Guildmaster who’s caught her attention, she soon learns she will have to fight to protect her heart and soul from being ripped apart by forces forever out of her control.





	1. Jone

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So I’ve had this story bouncing around in my head for quite awhile now. I figured I might as well just get it out and write it for my own amusement. I haven’t done any real writing in years and I’m too embarrassed to share it with anyone I know so I apologize for the vast amount of errors I know must still be in this.
> 
> This character came out of a desire to write a story with the lead developing into the type of character I play in the game, which is really fucking evil. If you’re looking for a protagonist with a good heart and lots of redeeming qualities, this is not the fic for you.

 

 

Chorrol was once probably a magnificent and beautiful city. The tall buildings made of oak and stone probably did not seem to sag with wear, the paint badly chipped and scuffed, the stones broken and stained by the weather. There probably wasn’t a constant mess of broken bottles and bodily fluids on the cobbled stone paths. They probably didn’t need to have guards posted outside of every tavern and gate, violence probably didn’t stalk the citizens slowly around every dark corner. The streets were probably lively and the people were probably once even happy, but that is not the city she found before her tonight. At least she would like to think it so.

Minerva sat on the windowsill of a drafty abandoned house overlooking the quiet activity of late night Chorrol. A fierce gust of wind came through and chilled her to the bone, her thin cloak doing little to keep her warm. She wrapped it tighter around her and reached down beside her for her bottle. She gazed at the softly illuminated stained glass of the Chapel of Stendarr as she drank deeply, the sickly sweet bitter taste hardly phasing her. As she swallowed she relished in temporary relief as warmth blossomed through her chest and muscles. She had never thought there could be a city more depressing than the Imperial City. She decided here that she was wrong, that she would take the busy hum of the filthy streets back at home where one could fade in a crowd and vanish in an instant. Chorrol provided no such cover, and she knew she needed to leave as soon as possible because of it.

She climbed down from the window and felt herself struggle to keep her balance. Perhaps she had drank too much. She didn’t drink skooma nearly as often as she used to but she liked to think she could handle herself better than most, and after her impromptu ride from the Imperial City to Chorrol on a stolen horse ridden nearly to death she had badly needed the relief. She could hardly walk after arriving, her limbs were so numb and sore from the ride and the cold. Hours later she could still feel the deep ache in her legs and through her abs. She took one last sip from her bottle before corking it and slipping it carefully into her satchel. As she exited the run down house she could feel her head swimming.

She began making her way down the back alley that ran behind the house and towards the edge of town. She needed to find somewhere to sleep where she wouldn’t freeze to death. The streets of Chorrol were subdued compared to the Imperial City but still held life to them at the late hour. She passed by a few taverns, careful to mind her gait in front of the guards. What was left of them really hovered around these types of establishments. Violence across the Imperial province had exploded in the decades since the Great war, all the cities struggling to deal with the aftermath of keeping a starving population in line with half the force they had had before. No where in Cyrodiil really felt safe anymore. _Especially not the Imperial City. Especially not for me._

As she rounded the corner she spotted a softly lit lantern hanging outside a cellar door, and next to it an Imperial man passed out cold on the cobblestone. She only needed to get within a few feet of him to smell how pungent his odor of smoke, skooma and good old fashioned liquor was. He was shivering in his sleep and she wondered how long he had been out in the cold. Stepping over him she gingerly lifted one of the doors and saw light coming from the cellar. Normally she might not have simply walked into an unfamiliar cellar in a strange city but the skooma and the cold had reached her head by now and her caution had waned.

Her instincts paid off as she reached the bottom of the steps to find it was indeed a skooma den as she had suspected. The cellar itself was basic and bare, the floor was still dirt and there were a few especially large barrels at the end of the room. She figured it was probably the cellar of an old tavern. A hearth was lit and the bodies gathered around it barely even moved or acknowledged her presence. They were homeless, all filthy and clothes worn and patched. It probably helped that she looked about as good as they did. She approached slowly, unsure if she should try to greet any that might still be awake or simply try to sit close enough to siphon warmth from their fire without being noticed. She decided on the latter and walked towards the wall when a man spoke up.

“Don’t recognize you. Who are you with?” His voice was low and grinding, like he had smoked too much for too long. It was an Imperial man shooting her a hard gaze. He was older, perhaps in his fifties with mostly gray hair.

“No one,” she responded. She reached into her satchel and pulled out one of her bottles and walked over to him, offering it out. “But I’m willing to share mine if you’ll share yours.”

He eyed her for only a moment before taking the bottle and nodding at her. She knew he wasn’t going to refuse it. Walking back toward the fire she could feel the warmth already seeping into her clammy numbed skin. She took a seat as close to it as she could bare and let the intoxicating mix of the sudden relief from the harsh night air and the skooma she had drank wash over her worn frame. Gods, she was tired. It probably wasn’t the safest spot in the city but it was warm and that was all she needed.

“’Ho! Whew!” the Imperial exclaimed after taking a drag off her bottle. The others around the fire stirred slightly at his outburst but mostly stayed in their half-waking states, collapsed all over each other and letting sleep take them again. “That’s got a hell of kick to it. You certainly didn’t get this from Orell, the piss he sells us.” He looked over to her again. “What’s a tiny thing like you doin’ with this? You don’t look like you could handle it.”

She chuckled slightly. “I can handle it just fine. I’m the one who made it.”

At that he looked rather amused. “You don’t say? Fine work.” He took another long swig before nudging the woman next to him and handing her the bottle. “You could become a wealthy woman quickly here makin’ drink like that. With the shit that gets pushed around here, lots of folk would pay top gold for it.”

She took off her cloak and wrapped it around her satchel to form a make shift pillow before laying down, her gray-blonde hair fanning out around her as it came loose from her tie. “You couldn’t pay me enough to stay in this shit heap of a city. I thought the Imperial City was bad, but this place is just depressing.”

The woman lying next to him sputtered as she drank from the bottle, her eyes widening as she coughed. He chuckled, “Well you got that right. If you aren’t rich or part of one of those hoity-toity families you ain’t livin’ right in Chorrol. They treat us like animals. Any home that was once affordable has fallen to pieces. Half the shops have closed in the last few years. It ain’t the same here anymore.”

She tried to focus on what he was saying but her mind was struggling to stay awake, her exhaustion and the skooma having a powerful hold on her. “Well I don’t plan on staying.” She mumbled.

Her eyes closed, she did not see the derisive look he shot her way. “Well then you might be smarter than you look. We’ll see soon enough.”

She didn’t put much thought into his words. Even on the hard dirt floor of the cellar her weakened body flooded with drowsiness, quickly shutting down and pulling her into a deep sleep.

 

* * *

 

_Minerva started at the sound of loud banging at her door and Saraji’s harsh voice. “Open up! Don’t make me say it twice!”_

_She slammed the cover of her book shut and rolled her eyes as she got up to answer the door. Saraji seemed to be having a rare day of clarity as she would normally be barely conscious by this time in the evening. Annoyed, she yanked her door open with more force than was necessary. “What?” she snapped._

_Saraji’s big, green and normally sad eyes burned with anger. Her typically matted tabby fur was unusually clean, as though she had actually managed to fall into a bath that day. “What are you doing? Wasting time on books you’ve read a dozen times before?” Her gaze went from the book on her bed back to Minerva. “You need to ready yourself, you have work.”_

_She clenched her jaw to try to quell her anger. “I can do whatever I please with my spare time.” Why was she even awake? “I’m not in the mood to deal with your customers. Make one of the others take them and I’ll make you some more skooma tomorrow.”_

_Saraji let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t give me that tone. Do you really think you’re in a position to negotiate with me? You must think me an idiot if you think I don’t realize how much you’ve taken advantage of my spells, forcing the other girls to work while you sit back and enjoy yourself. You’re my most expensive girl, you need to make up for my lost profits. Have you forgotten who’s in charge here, Min?” ‘Spell’ was a polite way of saying ‘rendered unconscious by copious amounts of skooma’._

_She could not help but scoff in response. “Oh, how could I? You’re such a present and vigilant proprietor of our fine establishment.” Her voice was heavy with sarcasm._

_To her surprise Saraji responded by bringing down her open paw in a harsh slap across her face. Caught off guard she gasped and stumbled back, catching herself from falling by grabbing on to a broken Dibella statue she kept and nearly cutting her hand on the jagged edge of Dibella’s arm. Saraji took the opportunity to step inside the room, closing the door behind her._

_“Shut up. Listen to me.” She stepped closer and her voice dropped to a hiss. “There’s a Motierre here. You need to take him.”_

_Minerva’s hand covered the inflamed skin where Saraji struck her. “Fuck you, get one of the other girls.” She spat._

_Saraji narrowed her eyes at her. Slowly, she walked over to Minerva’s dresser where a skooma bottle sat on a serving tray. She uncorked it and poured herself a glass. “I do too much for you. I let you believe you are in charge when you are not. I let you believe you are worth more than you really are.” She drank it in one swift gulp and continued in a low growl, “Do you know how easily I can replace you?”_

_Minerva scoffed and turned away from her, knowing it wasn’t true. Saraji had invested years teaching her how to brew skooma, along with a lesser known trick of refining sleeping tree sap. It was difficult to get a hold of and incredibly potent, but Saraji loved it. She was more often incapacitated than not and if not for Minerva they wouldn’t be moving any of their moon sugar. She preferred it greatly over whoring and usually managed to avoid having to take clients. “Then do it. If it’s so easy go find someone else that won’t rob you blind or ruin your shit. I bet they’ll even run your brothel for you while you’re passed out in your own mess!” She hissed. “Make Gianna take him, she’ll be glad for it. She loves those high society men.”_

_Saraji’s hateful gaze bore into her like hot pokers. “Your body belongs to me. You, belong to me. He doesn’t want Gianna, he wants a pretty little Breton girl and he has enough to coin to have you any which way he wants.” Anger burned inside of her at her words but she held her tongue. It was clear Saraji was sober enough to make sure Minerva wouldn’t have her way tonight._

_Saraji walked over to her and took her chin in her paw to look her in the face. She jerked her head back out of her grip before Saraji grabbed her again, harder. Minerva glared as Saraji stroked her cheek with a single claw. “Don’t be stupid. This one’s important. Motierre, remember that name? His kin sits on the Elder Council. Don’t fuck it up for us or be difficult. He’ll be the only one you have to take this week. Fair, yes?”_

_It was more of an offer than she had expected and there really wasn’t any use in trying to argue with her when the old bitch still had plenty of fight left in her. She moved out of her grasp once more and went to stand. “Fine. No more after him… I’m holding you to it. Don’t get wasted and pretend like you don’t remember.”_

_Saraji simply nodded and made her way to the door, caring little for her words and only that she obeyed. “Five minutes and I’ll send him in.” She closed the door behind her as she left Minerva alone in her room._

_Minerva walked over to her dresser and peered into the polished silver mirror, gently primping her hair before she took a deep swig from the skooma bottle. It was a vain attempt to soothe her anger towards the Khajiit. She pushed down the sleeves of her simple blue cotton dress until it fell into a heap on the floor. The breeze from her open window roused goosebumps over her creamy pale skin, and for a moment she stood there staring at her reflection. She let out a deep sigh before dabbing some perfume behind her ears and between her breasts and rummaging in her closet, pulling on a sheer lace robe that hung delicately on her small frame. She took one last swig from her bottle before arranging herself in a seductive pose on her chaise lounge. Across from her sat the mangled statue of Dibella. It had been damaged long ago when a client deep in his cups had thought to show off his battle prowess for her and accidentally struck poor Dibella with his mace, ripping off her flower and arm. Minerva had found it rather amusing and was impressed the statue held up at all. She liked it much more this way, but the shadows cast on it in the moonlight gave Dibella a rather skeptical expression this evening. “Don’t look at me like that.” she muttered._

_The door opened and a well dressed man walked in. He was young and looked to be in his twenties. His hair was ebony and his skin was fair and unmarred. His eyes met with hers and looked her up and down, eagerly taking her in as an impish grin spread across his face. “Fuck,” He breathed as he closed the door. “No wonder she keeps you hidden away. Look at you.”_

_She stood up as he made his way towards her, tilting her head back and beckoning him forward. He stood close to her and stayed observing her, his eyes drifting from her face to her thinly-veiled breasts and back again. He reached up and gently ran his fingers through her hair. “It’s rather unusual to see a girl your age with hair this color.” He brought a lock of hers to his face and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and savoring her scent. Now that he was close to her she could smell the potent stench of liquor, smoke and sweat coming off of him and it was clear to her that he had a long night before winding up at the Cathouse. With any luck she’d be able to finish him quickly and his intoxication would lull him into a fast sleep._

_He stepped back, looking at her again. “And your eyes match. That explains why they call you the silver lady. Saraji says you’re from Jode… that’s what the Khajiit call Secunda. It’s a good gimmick for you. You look the part, a mysterious moon goddess.” His smile twisted at the corner of his mouth. “Take it off.”_

_****Jone,**** she corrected silently to herself. She reached up and grabbed either side of her robe with her hands, moving the fabric tantalizingly slow as it fell away and the moonlight lit up her pale skin. “What’s your name?” He said softly. _

_She stepped toward him and ran her hands up his torso. She only came eye level with his chest and craned her neck to look up at him. “Tonight, anyone you want me to be… any way you want me.” She said softly. He leaned down and covered her mouth with his in an invasive kiss, his tongue aggressively probing down her throat. It made her stomach turn but she steeled her expression. His hands roughly gripped her breasts and pinched at her nipples with far too much force to be pleasurable, but she hummed into his kiss all the same. It seemed to please him as his kiss grew even rougher and he gripped her tightly around her waist. She pulled herself up to grind her body against him, feeling his cock already hardening in his trousers._

_He broke the kiss by grabbing her neck and moving her roughly away from him. “And what if I want you begging?” He suddenly shoved her back with so much force she stumbled and fell hard on the floor at the foot of her bed. Before she could respond to him he was upon her, his legs pressing painfully over her thighs pinning her down as he brought his backhand hard across her face. Her vision flashed white for a moment and she blinked rapidly, momentarily stunned. She struck wildly at him but it hardly seemed to phase him as he wrapped his hands violently around her neck, crushing the air from her throat. Her mind whirled, not expecting it from him, thinking him an excitable boy rather than a man who craved violence. She choked for air and clutched at his arm, trying to pull it off. “Please-” she gasped, but he only tightened his grip. His eyes held a derisive and sick amusement to them. She had been with men like this before but she was always warned and there was always a limit to what they could do to her. They paid a steep price for the privilege, as he most surely did, but this was different. This man felt entitled to hurt her. She struggled against him, hoping all he wanted was a reaction and he would soon let her breathe again.. but his grip only grew tighter, and true panic began to wash over her. Her feigned struggles turned into real fists desperately beating on his face and chest. It seemed to do nothing but anger him and he took one hand from her throat to grab her wrists and pin them above her head in a painful grip. His other hand released her throat and she gasped for air as he grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head back harshly. “Get OFF of me!” She spat and he released her hair to strike her again._

_“Shut up!” He shouted as his free hand moved to fumble with the tie of his pants. “I’ve already paid for you, I’ll do what I want.” She looked around for something, anything to help her and saw a silver goblet under her chaise within arms reach. Distracted as he was trying to pull himself out of his smalls she managed to twist away one hand from his grip and grabbed the goblet, throwing the leftover skooma in his eyes. He swore loudly, releasing her arms to rub the drink from his burning eyes. The drink was thick and not coming off easily, and he moved his weight off her legs to move to stand up. She used the opportunity to bring her leg up and as he stood she kicked him as hard as she could in the abdomen. It didn’t connect as hard as she would’ve liked after everything he had done, but he stumbled all the same. With his intoxication hindering his balance, he swayed as he tripped and fell back with a sickening crunch._

_It took her a moment to register what had happened. He laid there on her floor, his eyes wide and blank and staring at her ceiling right where her Dibella statue stood. When he remained motionless and silent her blood ran cold. “Oh, no.. Oh Gods, what the fuck did I do?” She crouched down to check beneath his head to see Dibella bosom deep in his skull, crimson running down her body and pooling beneath them. “No, no no no… “ A hundred thoughts ran through her mind at once. Gods, she only meant to get him off of her, not kill him! She and the Cathouse didn’t need any trouble from anyone with ties to the Elder Council. They would have her head the moment they discovered what happened, and Saraji would likely sell her out the first chance she gets. ** **I have to leave. They’ll kill me once they find his body. I have to leave now!****_

_Her heart beating in her ears she scrambled to her feet and moved a chair over to her bedroom door, barring it under the knob. Gods know it won’t keep Saraji out for long once she grows suspicious but it would be better than nothing. She grabbed the first dress she saw and threw it on along with the only cloak she owned. Her satchel hung on the dresser and she quickly snatched it, throwing anything of use on her dresser in the bag. She turned to make her way to the window before abruptly stopping and turning around to delve into one of the drawers. Rummaging through the clothing she quickly found it, a dagger and a belt. She rolled up her sleeve to strap it to her left bicep before concealing it again. With her bag full she stepped over to the window, looking back around her room. She had practically lived her entire life in the Cathouse. It was the only place she knew as home but she had no love for it anymore. She wasn’t her own person here, she didn’t even have the rights to her own body. Saraji, the other girls… none of them truly cared about her. She fought constantly with the other women. They all hated her and she was certain Saraji did too. The life she had here was empty and meaningless. She thought she would die within these walls the same way she lived, alone and angry. Never could she have predicted the possibility of being hunted, but she could imagine the terrible ways they could dispose of her should his family find her. She couldn’t stay here. She looked back to the growing pool of scarlet growing on the floor and studied his blank face for a few moments before quietly slipping out her window._

Minerva woke with her heart racing and adrenaline pumping through her veins. For a moment, she had forgotten where she was, her unexpected nightmare throwing her senses and disorienting her. She didn’t expect to be forced to relive the memory so soon. As her mind awakened and she began to process her surroundings and how the chill of the room had numbed her to the bone, the fire having gone out overnight. She shivered looking around and noticed most of the people who were there when she had fallen asleep were now gone, save for a few bodies strewn about the room still deep in sleep or stupor. _That’s right… I’m in Chorrol._

Through the fading numbness she could feel the deep ache of her body from the combined exhaustion of her long ride from the Imperial City and sleeping on the cold earth of the basement floor, and she stretched her arms out above her trying to relieve some of her tension. As she began to recount the events of the previous night she reached for her satchel, and upon resting her hand on it her stomach dropped. It felt empty and flat. Suddenly awake she ripped the bag open and frantically looked around her immediate sleeping space. Her skooma bottles were nowhere to be found. _Damn it! Fucking addicts!_

Furiously she kicked open the cellar door and stormed out into the brisk morning air. She kept a quick pace down the back alleys of where she assumed the poorer areas of the city were, searching for the man she had drank with her the night before. Minerva had learned a long time ago that if you allow someone an opportunity to take advantage of you they will do it and if you leave yourself open for deceit you will be played. She felt like a fool for even offering him any of her skooma. It wasn’t swill that you could pick up from any shady tavern keep, it was high quality, potent, and delicious compared to most skooma that was produced in Cyrodiil. It was brewed for nearly twice as long as most and Saraji had always procured the finest moon sugar. She could have sold it and bought a carriage to High Rock already had she not indulged. She should have known better, but Gods she was so physically and mentally exhausted by the time she stumbled into Chorrol that she just desperately wanted some relief, to feel _warm_ again.

She rounded a corner and kept close to the building, studying all the destitute citizens that gathered along the walls of the city where there was a sloped grassy dip in the earth. They were slightly obscured until you were upon them having some of the larger trees crowded near the run down buildings. She was a bit taken back by the amount of homeless she had seen in the city considering she had not even spent a full day there yet, and it concerned her that perhaps the bastard would have some friends with him when she found him. _If that’s the case then there’s probably nothing left,_ she realized, her anger rising.

Her concerns about him having back up flew out the window when she spotted him and her fury heated her body more than the fire had the night before. He sat huddled at the base of a tree, __her__ half empty bottle in his hand and sitting with another man and the woman who had been with him last night. She stormed up to his flank and saw her last two bottles empty in front of them, and threw her leg into his stomach, sending him slamming back against the tree with a choked gasp. He dropped the bottle and as it fell on the grass and his female companion dove for it but Minerva stomped her boot onto her outstretched hand until she felt a few small fragile bones snap. The woman wailed in pain as Minerva ground her boot down and bent over to retrieve what remained of the last bottle. “You fucking bitch!” she screamed. Minerva sneered with disgust and ignored her, and as she turned around she realized the Imperial man had recovered his initial shock and was attempting to scurry away, but he was slow and off balance thanks to the skooma. She quickly reached for one of the empty bottles and brought it down hard over his head, shattering it and sending tendrils of crimson through his hair. Grabbing a handful of his bloody hair she jerked his head back to hiss in his ear, “And where do you think you’re going? You better have the gold the make this right or I’ll tear your throat apart right here,” she punctuated her point by bringing the jagged remains of the bottle neck to the sagging flesh of his throat.

He began to stutter and shake violently, “P-P-Please, I have no coin to give! B-But I can find it for you, please, let me go and I’ll bring you--”

Her anger flared again and she dug the jagged point into his throat enough to squeeze a few drops of blood onto the glass. “Bring me what? Whatever paltry sum you steal from your friends?” Her grip on the glass tightened, “I should just do them a favor and kill you now, who would miss you? No one, I’ll bet,” A dark and strangely excited feeling blossomed from her stomach as she drew the glass back, but as she moved to drive it into his jugular a strong hand caught her elbow and kept her restrained, quickly grabbing her wrist below where she gripped the glass and pulling it from her grip.

She turned and saw him, realizing he was the one who had been sitting with them and for a moment her wild instincts turned to him and she nearly went for her dagger, but stopped when she saw his face. She recognized him, vaguely, from the Cathouse. He was a part of a posse of men that would bring shipments of moon sugar to Saraji, a young Nord with sandy brown hair and blue eyes. “Calm down, you’re making a scene.” At his words she looked around and realized a small crowd of vagrants had been watching them. _Gods, what’s wrong with me? I nearly killed another man and with a damn audience this time.._

He pulled her to her feet and she yanked her arm from his grasp, picking up and corking what was left of her last skooma bottle. She glared at the woman who was curled on the ground still crying before seeing the Imperial man run while he had the opportunity. It made her furious all over again but she controlled herself from chasing after him. She had to be careful, and that meant the bastard was going to get away with his theft for now. Turning back towards the Nord she snapped, “Well I certainly hope you have the coin to make up for their folly if you’re going to take up for them.”

At that he chuckled and smiled a bit, “Come on darling. You know you weren’t getting a damn Septim out of that lot. Let’s go somewhere with some privacy and we’ll speak of getting your gold.”

He motioned for her to follow and she hesitated for only a moment before trailing behind him. She didn’t remember much about him, only that he must’ve been either a new member to their organization or just some hired muscle as he seemed to usually be occupying the lobby with the other lackeys while they visited. The ones who ran the operation would join Saraji in the back room while everyone else enjoyed their fill of drink and whores, and Minerva would watch over _them_ to make sure no one got out of hand with their fun. This one had been quiet but friendly, even so she was surprised he remembered her. _Surely there’s no way word about me could’ve reached this far this quickly… right?_ Suddenly she didn’t know what to be more concerned about, retaliation from the Motierre family or from Saraji for running out on her and leaving her with a crime scene. _It wasn’t like he was out searching for me,_ she reassured herself. _I made a spectacle of myself and he recognized me. He knows I have good product and he wants more. That’ all._ As she walked behind the Nord she could feel the friction of her dagger strapped under her sleeve, the weight on her skin a comforting presence.

They had walked a few blocks and she began to feel a few drops of rain fall from the dark, gray sky above. She inwardly groaned at the idea of having to avoid getting drenched and freezing again while making her way out of this Gods forsaken city. “Is it much further?” she asked impatiently.

He stopped before a small flight of stairs leading down a discrete back door to a basement of some establishment, a tavern she guessed from the heavy smell of soup and pipe smoke wafting from the windows. He turned back and gave her the same smirking smile as before, “It’s right here.”

She stopped short of following down the staircase and he chuckled a bit. “Come on, I promise it’s not some trap. I wouldn’t dare mess with you after seeing you give poor ol’ Maurice the business.” She glared at him but followed him regardless.

Inside this cellar was much nicer than the one where she had slept the night before. It was rather large, and had multiple rooms off to the sides with large hearths to keep the place warm. There were about a dozen round tables set up but only a few were occupied this early in the day, most of the men gathered at one in the center of the room. There sat a man who she _did_ remember quite well, a middle aged Redguard named Alcor. He sat with three other men over bowls of soup and pipes full of sugared tobacco. When he looked up and saw her he smiled a toothy grin and gestured for her to sit down. “Well, well. If isn’t Saraji’s favorite kitten,” he laughed.

She forced a smile as she sat down in the chair next to him. This was beginning to look like it might turn fortunate for her. Saraji had dealt with many unscrupulous and dangerous men but Alcor had always seemed relatively reasonable considering his industry. She had never seen him get violent in the Cathouse, with the girls or his men. He enjoyed his liquor well enough and seemed to mostly stay away from the skooma despite buying all of Saraji’s available product. The sugared tobacco was to be expected, Saraji did buy moon sugar from him after all and mixing it in the pipe was a widely popular vice as it was known to be rather harmless considering the alternatives. His men all eyed her curiously but she kept her expression stony and disinterested, focusing only on Alcor. “It’s been a long time Alcor.”

He barked out a laugh between spoonfuls of soup. “Ahh, such a beautiful woman to remember the name of an ugly bastard like me. My dear you’re going to make me blush!” He slammed his fist on the table. “Evan! Bring the poor thing some food, look at her she’s wasting away.”

Her day had been such a torrent a strong emotions from the moment she had awoken that she actually didn’t realize how hungry she truly was until then, she hadn’t eaten a thing since before she left the Imperial City. As if on cue her stomach growled loudly and her face turned a deep scarlet as the men all broke out in a hearty laughter. She already struggled to be even remotely intimidating, reaching barely over five feet and petite as she was. She hated feeling so disarmed by them so quickly.

Evan, the Nord who had led her there came over with a bowl of stew with a few heels of bread and placed it in front of her. “Don’t worry darling, we won’t charge you for it,” he said with a wink.

“Well of course not,” she started, her irritation rising at his comment, “I’m only here to be compensated for my loss anyway, isn’t that right?” She stared right at him as she pulled the plate towards her and began to dunk the bread into the stew. “So I assume you’re the ones claiming this- what was his name? Maurice?” She took a bite of the soaked bread and relief spread through her at the taste and warmth and she quickly shoved the rest in her mouth. “The one who stole from me,” she explained, mouth full.

“Slow down kitten or you’ll choke,” Alcor said through his chuckles. “Tell me first, what are you doing so far from home all by yourself? Surely Saraji has not sent her favorite on an errand all alone.”

She shook her head. “Of course not.” After shoveling a few more spoonfuls of stew into her mouth she set her spoon down. “She probably doesn’t even realize I’m gone yet, the drunk.” She looked him in the eyes before explaining, “We got in a fight.. worse than usual. She struck me.”

Alcor stared back blankly, waiting on her to continue. “And? You must think me a real fool if you think I believe you left the Cathouse over a strong hand. I don’t believe there’s a whore in the Imperial City that isn’t slapped around by her Madam, or worse. What really happened?” The mirth in his expression had faded.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Not on my face. She has always been careful to only hit my body before. She knew I was sick of her, sick of running the Cathouse for her while she drinks herself into Oblivion. She struck me because she thought I was going to leave for another brothel, somewhere would I would actually be paid my worth and not the scraps she throws us… but she was wrong. I don’t want to be anyone’s whore anymore. I just want to start over somewhere else, where she won’t bother to try getting me back.” Well, it wasn’t a complete lie. She _was_ tired of being a whore.

Alcor idly puffed on his pipe as he listened. “And where do you want to start over? I can’t imagine Chorrol was your destination.”

She shot him a grieved look. “Absolutely not, Oblivion take this city for all I care for it. I had actually considered High Rock… I’ve never been there before.”

That made him smile. “Ahh, High Rock. You’d fit right in there, you’re a real Breton beauty. Those pompous cunts in court would kill each to get a chance to buy you.” Noticing her irritated expression he quickly corrected himself, “Though of course, you’re no whore anymore.” He grinned at her, “Saraji really fowled up running you off.”

“Yes, well. None of that really matters until I get passage out of here or it’s only a matter of time before someone drags me back there,” she pressed. She glanced over at Evan. “He told me I was to speak to someone about what was stolen from me, to compensate my loses.”

“And he would be right, except for your reimbursement.” Her heart fell and frustration grew in it’s place. “Unfortunately dear no one claims that filthy old man. I won’t take responsibility for him and I won’t give you gold for nothing. But I might have an opportunity for you that will accomplish both your goals and my own.”

“You can get me into High Rock?”

He coughed out his drag of sugared tobacco. “High Rock? Oh no, you’ll never get past the border. It’s locked up tighter than a miser’s purse with all the unrest pouring out from the north. And besides, there’s no business there compared to in Skyrim.”

“ _Skyrim? _”__ He must be joking. “Why would I want to go to Skyrim of all places? There’s a war going on up there!”

He grinned at her knowingly. “Yes, which makes it an easy place to hide. And for me, a great place to sell my goods.”

She gaped at him, “You want me to go to Skyrim to sell your skooma? You must be out of your mind.”

“No my dear, you misunderstand me. You left the Imperial City because you were tired of being owned. I can respect that, and would not think to threaten you into becoming my employee.” He leaned in towards her. “But you need a favor from me, yes? You need out of Cyrodiil and you don’t have the coin nor authority to get past the Empire’s security. I’ll do this for you, and even throw in a bag of gold if you do a favor for me.”

Unease building her in abdomen she pressed him on, “And that would be?”

“The Empire’s soldiers are on edge from the skirmishes up north. They’ve added security to the city’s taverns and the bastards arrested my man who was to see my goods over the border. I need someone to take his place and see that my shipment reaches Falkreath. Afterwards, you can walk away from our arrangement with clean hands with no more obligations. Fair?”

She glared at him again, “Is this a joke? You want me to smuggle your skooma into Skyrim?” She gestured to the burly men who sat at the table with them. “You have all these lackeys right here in the city that you know and trust, why not have them do it?” She scoffed, “I mean what do you think I’m going to do on my own if someone tries to ambush me? Hell, _when_ they try to ambush me. Do I look like I’m going to be able to intimidate or fight off a group of bandits on my own?”

He laughed loudly, “Oh, but I heard what you did to poor Maurice and his lady! I wouldn’t doubt your ferocity for a moment, kitten. And besides, all of my men are known to the guards here. They will not allow any of us through, the one they arrested was the only one who had a chance. I paid for him to come all the way from Leyawiin to do this for me and such is my luck.”

The comment was patronizing and it angered her but she steeled her expression. “Catching a drunkard off guard is a lot different than trying to fight an armored man who wants to kill you. I’m sorry, but this plan is ludicrous. I’ll be killed long before I even make it to the border.”

“Calm down. You’re tough but I know better than to send a little thing like you alone. We’ve already hired someone to escort the shipment into Falkreath, and I’m sure he’ll be competent enough to defend it. We just need someone on our side to accompany him and make sure he doesn’t try any funny business. You don’t even have to muscle him down, but if you suspect he’s trying to skim off the top or steal any business you’ll let our contact know, alright?”

At the mention of outside help she could not help but notice his men exchanging looks that ranged between amused and horrified that fed into her growing unease over the situation. “I don’t know. I don’t feel good about this.”

He reached into a pouch on the table and loaded a pinch of sugared tobacco into his empty pipe before passing it to her. “Nothing that’s worth having will come easily kitten. I can guarantee you will find no other passage out of Cyrodiil without paying a much steeper price either with your purse or by spreading your legs. You were Saraji’s most beautiful girl, do you think it will take her long to try to send someone to retrieve you?”

If all that Saraji wanted from her was her body she certainly would not think she’d bother to send anyone to retrieve her. Her skooma production was what made her truly valuable in the Khajiit’s eyes, but she did not want to admit that to him lest he propose something more long term. “Fine,” she reluctantly agreed, “Who is he?”

Alcor cleared his throat and straightened up. “Now I must admit, he’s an odd one. We’ve tailed him long enough to know he’s deadly but you won’t necessarily be convinced when you first meet him. It’s part of what makes me so confident this is going to work.”

Finally, she took a long drag from the pipe. She could feel the gentle effects of the moon sugar spreading through her torso and down to the fingertips. It was relaxing, but not overwhelming. “I want a satchel of moon sugar, too.”

He frowned, “I’m already giving you a sack of gold, kitten. I’m sure you were familiar enough with Saraji’s business to know that I only sell the very best, I cannot just give it away.”

“Oh, I know. You just expect me to travel with a complete stranger, who I have to trust is going to defend me, on our way up bandit infested roads into a literal battleground. All with a lifetime’s sentence of skooma with me!” She handed him back his pipe. “I think you can spare me some sugar for the damn trouble.”

He sat back and gave her a stubborn look for a few moments before sighing and reaching into his satchel hanging from the chair. “Very well. You’re lucky you’re so pretty, you know that?” He said as he pulled out two small pouches and moved to hand them to her.

She quickly pocketed them into her own bag. She was eager to move on and get the hell out of here. The thought of having to smuggle contraband through Legion security was terrifying, and the longer she waited the more she would just dwell on it and let it make her sick. “So, where am I going?”

Alcor grinned that toothy grin at her again. “The graveyard. You’ll know him when you see him, trust me.”

 

 

 

 


	2. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traveling during winter sucks.

 

 

 

It was midday when Minerva quietly made her way along the cobbled path leading to Chorrol’s Hall of the Dead, though the sky was so dark it was difficult to tell. The garden was terribly overgrown, it’s grass wild and obscuring the tombstones from view of anyone who might care to read them. She could hear thunder off in the distance and again felt dread creeping up on her. She wished she had thought to bring a thicker cloak with her when she left. _At least I was able to get some food hot in my stomach. And I have that small bit of skooma left if I get really desperate later._

As she approached the Hall of the Dead the foliage became thinner and less unkempt. Faintly, she could hear the sounds of a horse nickering and… singing? The closer she got the clearer it became, a man’s high pitched voice humming and singing an erratic tune. It was extremely unnerving and she did her best to step quietly as she rounded the back corner of the building, noticing as she did the singing had stopped. Her attempts to stay quiet apparently did her no good and as soon as she turned she stood face to face with an Imperial man with sharp features and a gaunt face, as though he had been waiting on her. His limp red hair was slipping out from underneath a jester’s hat and sticking to his damp face. He wore dyed red and black leather motley, the likes of which she had never seen before. She couldn’t help but be startled and gasped at the sight of him.

“Oohhh!” He squealed loudly, “What do we have here? A lost, sweet maiden?” His words went from loud and rush to low and drawled. He kept a wide grin on his face that was not inviting nor warm, and she took a step back from him before he continued, “Or perhaps are you the one sent to help poor, poor Cicero?” He huffed a dramatic sigh and threw his head back, bringing the backs of his hands to his forehead in a dramatic fashion. “There is just SO much work to be done!” He whined.

Minerva stood staring blankly at him for a moment, beside herself that Alcor could be so desperate to hire someone like _this!_ Was this his idea of being discrete? There must be more to the story. The horse she had heard before was attached to a carriage near the back door of the building. _Okay, he has means to move it but how are we going to avoid being searched? Maybe he has some connections with the guards here…_

“Y-Yes,” She stumbled, “I’m Minerva.” She held her hand out to him, which was not a gesture she typically practiced but somehow it felt necessary with him.

He gasped at the invite and excitedly grasped her hand with both of his, shaking it with far too much enthusiasm as he hopped from one foot to the other. “Such manners! Such elegance! Oh-ho-ho yes, I’m certain we’ll be fast friends.” He bowed dramatically, announcing, “Cicero, the Fool of Hearts, is at your service.” He kept her hand in his own as he started to pull her towards the steps leading down to the door. “Come along now, we’ve no time to waste, we have so much to pack and must set a quick pace!” He sang.

As Cicero burst through the doors with her in tow the smell of death hit her hard and she gagged. There were two men on the floor next to an open coffin with a grotesquely rotting corpse that was so badly decayed most of it’s face gone was gone and it’s skin was black as night. One of the men carefully lifted and maneuvered the body as the other stuffed straw around bottles of skooma underneath. “That’s disgusting,” she breathed, still struggling to adjust to the smell and covering her mouth with her cloak.

Across from them a set of double doors pushed open and two men carrying another coffin walked past them and up the stairs to the carriage. Minerva watched as they heaved to lift it onto the back of the wagon and next to an even larger trunk. More contraband, she assumed. When they finished and started back down the stairs Cicero again pulled her attention towards him. “We’ll be on a long journey together, friend. Should you need to procure anything before we go, now is the time.”

The two men on the floor secured the lid back over the coffin and moved to lift it off the ground. She moved out of their way as they walked towards the door before turning back to Cicero. “No, I’m alright. I just want to get on with it and get the hell out of here.” She wasn’t worried about food, she still had some dried meat and some nuts and berries that she had taken from the Cathouse in her satchel. The only thing she would’ve really wanted was a warmer cloak but even with the purse Alcor had given her she didn’t have the coin for that. She did still have a small bit of skooma though and she would sip that on the way to keep her warm, hopefully. _I’m sure Skyrim is colder now than the Imperial City ever gets, and it’s bound to get worse._ It would be Frostfall soon enough.

At the top of the steps she could hear the two men arguing. “What’s this big one in here for? There’s no point, take it out and we can fit two more in it’s place. Is it even packed?” As he reached up to grab hold of it she could hear Cicero’s sharp inhale next to her.

“NO! No, no, no, no you will NOT touch her! Keep your filthy hands OFF!” In an instant Cicero was up the steps, grabbing the man by his collar with his dagger drawn and pressed to his throat. The man didn’t even have time to draw his own sword at his hip and his hands were held up in surrender. “Cicero agreed to let you load his cart! He did NOT agree to let you take things out!” His expression was twisted and full of rage.

“I-I’m sorry! For the love of Mara man calm down, we won’t touch it!” The man was visibly shaking when Cicero released him and Minerva did not blame him, Cicero was surprisingly terrifying. He stood staring him down, his face drawn with harsh lines as he sheathed his dagger.

Minerva carefully approached as the men scampered back into the building to retrieve more coffins. “Cicero,” she said gently. Immediately his expression broke, and as he turned to face her he was grinning wildly again. “Are you okay? Come on, if we hurry we can get out of here and we won’t have to worry about dealing with these guys.”

Cicero giggled like a child, “Ohh yes, Cicero is quite alright! And you’re right, Cicero is just eager to arrive in Skyrim as well!” His voice dropped to a low mutter, “Poor Cicero has been traveling for so very long now..” Minerva did her best to force a smile to reassure him as he walked past her and back into the building. “Helpful lads will load the cart, and if they touch her I’ll carve out their hearts!” He sang.

She almost laughed. Almost. _Damn that Alcor. An odd one? He’s fucking mad! He could’ve warned me at least!_ She looked back to the carriage at the large trunk that Cicero had been so protective of. _I wonder who she is._

Hours had gone by before Cicero and the crew felt like the wagon was ready to haul off. The sun had not been visible all day but the clouds had begun to disperse as it set, sending a wave of crimson over the evening sky. In that moment it felt like a terrible omen to her. All day she had watched them packing corpses over poorly secured skooma, most of which were in awful condition and should have been buried long ago. She had smelled death before, but nothing like what was in that room. _This is a terrible idea. What am I even doing? If we get caught I hope_ _this guy_ _is crazy enough to kill the guards so I can have a chance at getting away.._

Cicero held his hand out to her as she approached the front seat. She accepted it and he gently helped lift her up on to the wagon. They had ended up having to switch out his original cart for a larger one that could latch a second horse. There were about a half dozen coffins and it had become too heavy for just the one to pull it at any reasonable pace. Cicero, of course, gave special attention to his own trunk when it was moved over. As he jumped on the seat next to her and took the reigns, Alcor’s men eyed them warily from the cover of the building. They clearly had no trust in the jester and she was beginning to wonder why Alcor did. Or in her, for that matter.

“Toodles!” Cicero called out to them in a singsong voice as he snapped the reins. The wagon moved with a slow start and a low creak but thankfully the steeds were able to keep a fairly reasonable speed as they traveled on the main road toward Chorrol’s northern gate. She was already starting to see people take notice of Cicero’s strange appearance and dread began to form in her stomach again. He had thankfully put on a black cloak that helped to conceal his motley, at least a little bit, but he still refused to take the hat off. Before long she realized it wasn’t just Cicero they were gawking at but _her_ too. She looked down and noticed how filthy her dress and cloak had become from all the dirt and bodily fluids she had worked through. Her hair was matted and although she hadn’t seen her appearance in awhile she knew her face was probably covered in grime as well. _Oh great, so a jester and a homeless girl are just going to waltz right up to the city gate with a wagon of coffins and be waved right through? This is crazy, why did I agree to this!_

Most of Chorrol’s traffic in and out of the city was through the southern and eastern gates. The northern gate led into the rural countryside that sprawled out before the Colovian Highlands. The main roads from there led to Bruma, where much of the traffic was related to the Imperial Legion. So it did not surprise Minerva when she saw the extra security compared to the southern gate she rode in on. The cart in front of them was stopped under the rampart and was by all accounts innocent looking, loaded with farming tools and sacks of grain and animal feed. Still, she saw one of the guards approach the driver and speak to him as a second began to look through the back of the cart, even going so far as to look in some of the bags, doing nothing to soothe her growing anxiety.

Cicero must have noticed her discomfort as he put his hand on her soldier and leaned in to whisper, “Now, you just let Cicero do the talking, sweet Min. Don’t you worry, Cicero has never had a problem fooling stupid guards!” He giggled.

Her heartbeat picked up when the guards waved the cart through and looked back to Cicero and herself. To her dismay their faces immediately contorted into suspicion and bewilderment as Cicero sat with a smile so wide that it could only be described as bizarre as they ushered the horses to move the wagon up. As the first guard approached Cicero she did her best to appear calm and began to count the guards she could actually see around the gate. _Eight, nine… far too many for Cicero to take on_ _alone_ _._

“State your business.” He ordered.

“Oh, dedicated Cicero is escorting these fine men back to their homeland. You know how Nords are about their burial traditions, very very picky indeed!” He offered gleefully.

The guard raised a brow at Cicero. “What are you talking about? There’s plenty of room in the cemetery. You have identification for all of them?”

“Oh yes!” Cicero cooed, reaching into his pocket and handing the man a rolled parchment. He unfurled it, seeming to carefully read over all the names.

“These are just foot soldiers. Who’s paying for this?”

“The good Jarl, fine friend of the Empire assures no cost is too great to return them home. To bind and oil and store in a catacomb..” Cicero spoke in a singsong voice that turned to a low growl, much to her chagrin. Any second thoughts she had about his madness were wiped away then, he truly was insane to act like this in front of the damn inspectors. _Please, just keep it together you nut._

The guard only furrowed his brow deeper. He nodded to the guard standing on Minerva’s side of the wagon and as he walked to the back of the cart her heart began to beat wildly in her chest. They were suspicious and rightfully so. He examined the coffins briefly, knocking on them and tugging at the ropes bound around them, before sliding his hand over the lid of the one on top. He drew a small dagger from his hip and cut the rope around it, grabbing the lid as he peered over at Cicero. He was smiling as though he didn’t have a care in the world, and Minerva’s pulse was hammering away in her ears as he popped the lid ajar to peer inside. Instantly, the pungent smell of rotting flesh hit the area so hard that even the guards on the rampart flinched at the odor. The guard inspecting the coffin had only a moment to look at the corpse before he dropped the lid and doubled over, barely getting his helmet off before violently expelling the contents of his stomach. The other guards erupted in laughter at the poor lad, who was barely holding himself up, clinging to the wagon.

The guard who had questioned Cicero sneered in disgust and moved to pull his companion to his feet. He looked back and made eye contact with Minerva before shouting, “Get moving!” and slapping the back of the wagon. Cicero wasted no time heeding his instructions and snapped the reins. The wagon took off with a jolt and she could see the other guards still eyeing them suspiciously as they passed. It didn’t matter now. They were finally out, and with every inch they put between them and the city walls Minerva could feel the tension draining from her body.

When they were far enough away that she felt comfortable speaking again she breathed a sigh of relief. “Gods, I can’t believe that worked. I thought for sure they’d search every one of them. We got really lucky he had such a weak stomach.”

Cicero frowned deeply at her. “Lucky? Hmph! Luck had nothing to do with Cicero’s clever plan! You do me such injustice.”

She raised a brow at him. “You planned on him getting sick did you?” she replied, clearly unconvinced.

The corner of his mouth twitched up into a strained smile and he chuckled, “Did you not wonder why the bodies we chose were so.. “, he inhaled sharply, “.. distasteful? So poorly prepared, rotting and practically turning to soup.”

“Well, I-” she started, but quickly realized that the thought didn’t even occur to her. “I’m not exactly familiar with funeral practices. I don’t know what corpses look like by the time they bury them,” she tried to defend herself, but she knew it was naive as she said it. Those bodies had clearly been neglected for some time.

Cicero giggled in a slow high pitched voice, “Sweet, innocent Min. Was that your first time to see a corpse?”

She narrowed her eyes at the road ahead of them and crossed her arms, not particularly enjoying hearing the nickname come from him. “No.”

Cicero glanced at her from corner of his eye as an impish grin spread across his face but he said nothing more. For awhile he filled the silence by humming to himself as they passed through the large swaths of Colovian farmlands north of the city. The tunes were strange and erratic but somehow she wasn’t annoyed by them. It was growing dark and she could hear thunder roaring off in the distance. She hoped it wouldn’t bring them rain in the night, it was already growing too cold for her comfort and her cloak would do little to help keep her dry. Now that she was in the clear and her nerves were calmed she sorely regretted not finding warmer clothing while in Chorrol. Despite all his sweet talk Alcor did not give her much gold, but she probably could have stolen something warmer if she had looked around. It would be a long journey before they’d even reach the Jerall mountains and Gods only knew it would soon get worse.

“So, uh, Cicero,” she started, feeling obligated to learn more about him since they would be spending so much time together, but unsure of how to go about it with his strange temperament. “How do you know Alcor?”

“Hm? Oh, the Redguard fellow. We had worked out certain.. contracts, in the past,” Cicero giggled. “It was some time ago. Cicero was so flattered the kind man remembered!”

She laughed at that. “I don’t think anyone’s going to forget meeting you.”

“You’re going to make me blush!” He squealed. “Alcor found poor Cicero in Chorrol and practically begged for his assistance, and Cicero was in no position to refuse. Our gold was running low as it was, and it is imperative that I get Mother to Skyrim as soon as possible.”

“Oh,” her voice softened, glancing back behind her at the wagon’s cargo, “so she’s your mother. I had been wondering… I’m sorry for your loss.” _That makes sense._

Cicero’s smile seemed to only twist tighter as he giggled quietly. “It’s quite alright. Poor Mother has been dead for quite some time. Cicero takes care of her, makes sure she’s comfortable, oiled and clean…”

She looked at him from the corner of her eye. _What the fuck? Okay, that’s disturbing._ “So why are you taking her to Skyrim? Was she ‘uncomfortable’ here in Cyrodiil?” Her voiced was edged with sarcasm.

Cicero’s eerily happy expression instantly fell and his mouth became tight and flat. Their small lantern on the front of the wagon cast deep shadows on his gaunt face, and with his brow furrowed the way it was he actually looked pretty intimidating. For a moment he didn’t speak, and her stomach began to turn with regret that she might have provoked a madman who had otherwise been willing to help her out.

“Cicero’s family was destroyed. Slaughtered like animals. There was no choice but to flee to Cheydinhal. Mother and I stayed there for so very long, in the dark, alone… it was nearly.. maddening..” Cicero heaved a sigh, “but no more! Mother and I are going to see the last of our family in Skyrim, and poor Cicero will not have to be alone anymore.”

Minerva did not know how to respond to that without offending him so instead she stayed quiet. None of what he was saying made any sense but she wasn’t going to question him on it. And really, why was she even bothering? In a few days they go their separate ways and she’d never have to deal with him again. The wind was beginning to pick up and she pulled her cloak around herself tighter.

“And what about you, friend? Cicero answered your questions, tell him why you were so desperate to to flee Chorrol,” he inquired.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I’m not from Chorrol, I’m from the Imperial City. I… worked for someone who treated me badly.” _Someone who bought me, owned me like a dog._ “I decided to leave, but I made some mistakes on my way out of the city. It’s not safe for me there anymore.”

He giggled, saying, “Cicero wonders why his new friend thinks a country at war will be any safer for her.”

“Well it wasn’t as if I had much of a choice, I needed to leave quickly and Alcor was paying.” she snapped. “It’s starting to get cold… maybe we should find someplace to make camp for the night.” She suggested, not wanting to continue the conversation any longer.

“No, no, no! We’ve only just started a few hours ago, Cicero can go on for much longer.”

She frowned at him, “Aren’t you worried about the horses? You can hardly even see the road anymore. What will you do if they break a leg?”

“Break a leg you say? Why, I’d put them on a stage! One would play lute while the other neighed the flute!” He cackled loudly at his own jest.

“Ah… right.” She sighed and gave up, trying to shove herself as far into the corner of her seat as she could to keep warm. If he wasn’t going to stop, maybe she could at least get some sleep as they traveled.

“Don’t worry friend, Cicero will stop when he finds a suitable camp with cover. The highlands are so open, we must be very careful or we’ll wake up with our throats slit by bandits!”

“I suppose that is a good point, though this road doesn’t seem very traveled.” And it was true, past the farmlands there wasn’t much of anything until passing through the Jerall mountains. It certainly didn’t seem like a likely hot spot for thieves but Cyrodiil was so steeped in crime that it wouldn’t completely surprise her either if someone happened upon them.

She yawned loudly and closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of the wagon traveling over the uneven path. She drifted in and out of sleep, unable to fully rest with the wagon jostling her around. Some time later she awoke when Cicero finally stopped the wagon. It was hard to say how much time had passed but she was already sore from the seat, so she hoped they had been making good time.

As she stretched her legs Cicero jumped down from the wagon and lit a spare lantern he brought with them. “You stay here with Mother, Cicero will gather some tinder.” She watched as he disappeared into the shadows and she could only see the faint glow of his lantern. She took the bedrolls he had brought and began to lay them out, looking around now that her drowsiness was wearing off. Cicero had placed them next to a rocky outcrop, obscured from the road by a small grove. It was a good spot for camp but she did wonder how he was able to spot it in the dark.

She sat down on the bedroll and dug into her satchel for her skooma bottle. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Cicero wasn’t back yet before taking a few drinks and slipping it back into her bag. She wasn’t used to sleeping on anything besides her bed and her body was still sore, she would need any help she could get if she was actually going to get some rest tonight. The warmth from the skooma felt as though it seeped into her bones as she laid back and gazed up at the stars, which were twinkling brighter by the second.

When she was at the Cathouse her room had a window just high enough to give her a view above most of the city. She used to sit on the ledge so often staring at the sky and the silhouette of the White-Gold Tower, drinking to drown out the screams and moans from the brothel. She had felt so empty there, used up from a life of selling herself and pushing away anyone who might grow to care for her. In truth she never even allowed herself to spare the thought of leaving the city. She was a whore, with no skills beyond refining skooma. Something inside of her snapped when that Motierre boy was killed, as though she had woken from a long lucid dream and the haze in her mind cleared. Her life there was not one she wanted but she wasn’t willing to simply hand it over for Saraji’s sake or anyone else… When she saw his dead eyes starring up at her she knew she would rather face a million different deaths on the road fighting for herself than to stay there and let them kill her for nothing. _For once, I didn’t do anything wrong._

She must have dozed off because suddenly Cicero was there with her again breaking branches and building a small fire. When it caught flame the warmth was such a relief that she inched her bedroll close to soak it in. Cicero hummed merrily as she drifted off to sleep again.

 

* * *

 

 

_Minerva sat on her tufted ottoman in her room in the Cathouse, her feet hanging off the side and just barely able to touch the floor. It was a bright, sunny day and the window was wide open letting in a cool, gentle breeze and the soft hum of the city streets in the late morning. She idly worked on the fabric in her lap, a dress that was gathered in a heap as she hemmed a seam while Saraji sat behind her brushing her hair. It was a rare day in the brothel. There were no screams, moans or fights and Saraji was pleasant and mostly sober. She sang a tune softly while working her claws gently through the kinks in her long gray-blonde hair._

“ _Your hair is getting so long now,” she commented, pulling it down her back and touching the ends. “Don’t you dare ever cut it.”_

“ _I like my hair long,” she replied,_ _her youthful voice sounding strangely foreign._ _“I can even braid it now. I saw some women in the market, they tucked flowers in their braids. It was so pretty, I want to try it.”_

_Saraji chuckled softly behind her. “You don’t need flowers to be beautiful, little one.” She gently ran her paws through her hair, parting it then combing it together again. “You know why you’re special?”_

_Minerva stayed silent, not sure if she truly wanted a response or not. It was obvious Minerva was a special case for Saraji because she was the only girl to actually be raised in the Cathouse, but she was never really sure exactly why. Many girls had came and gone but it had always been her and Saraji there together._

_Saraji made a ‘tsk’ sound with her teeth. “When I find my girls I visit all the orphanages in the city. Only the most beautiful girls who have bled, or are soon to bleed come home with me to work. But you, you were so small. Could not have been more than two or three years. They did not present you to me but I saw you there, standing by the window. Your hair looked nearly white in the sunlight. And your eyes, this one had never seen such stormy, beautiful eyes belong to a child. It was like a lifetime of pain was captured in them, ridiculous for one so young to hold such a weight to their gaze.” She absentmindedly ran a lock of her hair around one of her claws. “And when you looked at me, it struck me. You were like a piece of Jone herself. I knew you were meant to be at my side.”_

_Minerva’s heart warmed at her words. It was so unlike Saraji to speak like this to her, so open and kind. She closed her eyes and tried to hold the moment in her heart, remember it always. The feeling of Saraji gently scratching her head, the sounds of laughter coming in through the window, the comfortable drowsiness that enveloped her from sitting in the warm sunlight. She wished so desperately that she could feel that peace every day._

“ _They didn’t want me to visit with you. ‘There’s something wrong with her,’ they told me. ‘She won’t make a sound’. The human fools had no idea what you are. They knew nothing of_ _the Lunar Lattice_ _,_ _they could not see_ _the spiritual connection you share with them.”_ _She nuzzled the back of her head with her big nose. “But this one could.”_

_Minerva smiled brightly. Though she never quite understood Saraji’s obsession with the moons and had never actually felt the connection that she spoke of, it still made her feel special. “I demanded they let me see you. They were so shocked when you went right to me and reached for me. Do you know what you called me that day?”_

“ _No,” she answered truthfully._

_There was a pause before a low, choked voice that did not belong to Saraji whispered in her ear. “Mother!” it hissed, and she gasped when a hand roughly gripped her hair and yanked her head back to look at them. It was no longer Saraji but a woman, a human woman with a grotesque face. Her mouth was gaping open, black and rotten and large, black voids grew where her eyes should have been. She felt herself being pulled into them as she stared back, a terrible white noise building louder and louder in her ears until she screamed at the top of her lungs and squeezed her eyes shut again._

Minerva woke with a start, her heart beating wildly in her chest as she shot up and looked around confused before remembering again where she was. She was still next to the campfire Cicero had built but it was nearly completely out now. Cicero sat to her right on his own bedroll, awake and holding a half eaten apple and staring at her with a queer expression she could not quite decipher. Her mind began to catch up and remember that she was no longer that child but a grown woman, and her once fond memory had only been warped in a nightmare. No longer wrapped in the bedroll the bite in the air began to seep into her, the temperature had dropped significantly overnight and despite being past sunrise the sky was still dark and covered in gray clouds.

“What?” she snapped at him, feeling her body already begin to tremble from the brisk air.

He stared at her for a moment longer before speaking. “Cicero just wonders if you’re alright is all. Did you have a bad dream?”

She pulled the bedroll around her like a blanket. “You could say that.” She huffed, laying back down. “Sorry if I disturbed you. I haven’t been sleeping well lately...”

Cicero giggled. “Oh, you could never disturb Cicero, sweet Min. I am far from… squeamish.” She raised at brow at him but said nothing to question his choice of words. “Are you hungry? Cicero has food if you’re ready to get up!” he said in a singsong voice.

“It’s too cold to move,” she groaned. “I just need to warm up a bit. Could you throw some wood on the fire?”

“Oh no! We have no time for more campfires. Cicero has already seen the horses fed and watered, we must leave soon if I’m ever to get poor Mother home. And we’re still so very far…” he muttered while collecting his things.

She sighed and forced herself to sit up. “You’re right. I need to get moving.” She stood up and stretched, immediately regretting the loss of heat from losing contact with the bedroll. “I’ll be right back.” She vigorously rubbed her hands together, breathing on them in attempt to ward off the numbing sensation as she walked away from camp and down towards a nearby stream with her water skin.

The grove was thick with brush and she lost sight of Cicero and the wagon before she could hear the stream. It was a quiet morning, despite it growing much colder than the night before the wind had died down to nothing and the grove felt very still. Dried brown leaves crunched under the weight of her steps as she approached the water. As she rinsed out her water skin she could hear thunder in the distance and cursed her luck and stupidity. She was so paranoid by the thought of getting caught with the skooma that she hadn’t even stopped to consider what the conditions would be like on the way north. Her clothing was not warm enough and she was becoming worried. It didn’t seem like Cicero was planning on taking any populated roads that might have an inn or shop along the way. What in Oblivion was she going to do if it rained?

As she crouched by the stream the sounds of the water running over rocks and washing her water skin began to mix with the white noise of the wilds. Distantly at first but growing louder she could hear indistinct intonation around her. At first she thought it just the wind picking up again, but when she looked up to see the source there were no leaves being disturbed, no swaying branches of the trees. When she strained to pick out the noise again it seemed to be gone, and she went back to her skin. _An animal,_  she reasoned.

As she filled it up she began to hear it again, louder, closer, standing out among the melody of the forest. It sounded like whispers but she couldn’t make out any words. She scanned the area around her again, and again saw nothing. She began to feel unease creeping up her back as she slowly reached into her sleeve and silently unsheathed her dagger, her eyes still searching. She stayed crouched there waiting for a few minutes while the voices began to fade as if they were moving away from her. After a few minutes her heartbeat slowly returned to normal and she sighed, mentally chastising herself for allowing herself to be so spooked by what was probably just the wind.

As she stood to leave an agonized voice choked “Help me!” in her ear. She gasped in shock and whipped around, flailing her dagger out at the source of the voice but lost her balance when her dagger sliced through clean air and no one was behind her, causing her to slip on the rocks and fall in the creek. She sat for a moment, breathing heavily and starring at the empty space before her, before her confusion soured into rage in the instant she realized her dress was soaked. Furious, she cursed and threw her water skin against the rocks before standing and kicking the trunk of a nearby tree. She could already feel stinging pain from the wet part of her skirt that clung to her skin. She wrung out as much water from the fabric that she could but it still felt so miserable. After retrieving her water skin again she stormed away from the creek and back to camp.

What on Nirn was that? It was the same voice that she heard in her dream the night before, that much she was certain of. Did she just imagine it? It sounded so _real_. Just thinking about it sent goosebumps over her skin. _It’s probably my nightmares bleeding into my waking conscious… maybe the skooma is affecting me more than I thought._ She tried to push it from her mind as she walked upon the campsite, but she stopped in place when she saw Cicero.

He was kneeling by the back of the wagon, his head down and his hands clutched onto the handles of his trunk. “Oh, Mother!” His voice was hushed and anguished. “Please, give poor Cicero a sign. I know you will not speak but please find some way to tell Cicero if this is right. If Cicero is going the wrong _way_ … if the listener is not there… Cicero can not live with knowing he has doomed his family for eternity! This is our last chance..”

_Oh what the fuck…_ She held her breath watching him, afraid to move and alert him to her presence. She found herself wondering again at just who Cicero’s mother was and what in Oblivion happened to the poor man. The reverence he showed her seemed more akin to a God than a woman, but then Cicero was clearly no ordinary man himself. Cicero was no longer speaking but still crouched in the same position making whining sounds of frustration.

His strange display worked wonders to quell her anger as she quickly became more concerned with his temperament than her own confusing situation yet again. “Cicero,” she began softly. “Are you alright?”

His mewling ceased at the sound of her voice and when he turned to look at her the expression on his face reminded her of a pouting child. “Cicero is fine my lady,” he began, his voice miserable. “It’s just so important we reach Skyrim soon!”

She stood looking him over a minute. He still sat hunched by the wagon, his cloak pulled back enough for her to glimpse the ebony dagger that hung on his belt. She did not fool herself for even a moment by allowing herself to believe he didn’t know how to use it. The sheer speed at which he drew it on Alcor’s man back in Chorrol had been impressive… she wondered what it would be like to watch him gore someone with it.

“That’s where your family is right?” He did not respond, only tracing circles onto the trunk in front of him with his index finger. “Do they know you’re coming?”

Cicero huffed. “Of course they do, Cicero is a professional. He wrote her, she wrote him, he wrote her again and here we are.” He pounded a fist on the wagon.

Slowly, she approached him and crouched down beside him, gingerly placing her hand on his shoulder and preparing to defend herself in case of a bad reaction. But it never came, and Cicero instead turned to her, eyes wide and said, “How will Cicero know if she is _lying?”_  The last part was grounded out, viciously out of sync with the rest of his words.

She thought for a moment before responding, “Is that happened when you went to Cheydinhal? Someone lied to you?”

Cicero’s gaze hardened. “Yes. An infected finger must be severed to save the hand, but we were too late. The rot spread quickly and one by the one the rest of them were cut down. Until all that remained was Cicero… and Mother, of course.”

It was probably the closest she would ever get to an explanation out of him and she decided she wouldn’t ask about it again. Maybe someday she would get the full story but until then she simply knew that he had a violent past, and any attempt to deceive him could very well be fatal. It’s a damn good thing Alcor didn’t expect her to fight him if he did steal from them, but if he did and she told them about it would it even be worth it? She highly doubted Alcor would’ve secured her any sort of protection in Falkreath and who’s to say Cicero wouldn’t just find her later and kill her? No, it wouldn’t do to upset him anymore.

“I’m sorry for bringing it up.” She gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before taking back her hand and standing up. “Cicero, do you think we could make our way back to the main road towards Bruma? Just until we spot a tavern. I really need some warmer clothing. The sky looks like it’ll start pouring any second now and I’m afraid I’ll freeze if it does.”

“No,” Cicero’s voice was surprisingly stern. “It would waste too much time to double back now. We’ll continued north and take shelter if needed, but Mother has already been topside for far too long. To risk delaying her even further would be… ill advised.” He noticed her worried expression and quickly added in a cheerful voice, “Don’t worry friend! Cicero will not let you turn to ice. You and Mother both will be delivered safely to Falkreath, I promise you.” He stood up and bowed deeply to her, though the gesture did little to reassure her.

They quickly packed what was left of camp and loaded themselves back on the wagon. When Cicero led them back to the road the wind began to pick up again but this time Minerva had cocooned herself in her bedroll and felt much better. The ride was no better than the day before, if anything the road became even more haphazard as it weaved through the growing blanket of trees that covered the base of the Jeralls and the northern countryside. The forest around them did well to hide the sky but she could hear the thunder nonetheless. The inevitability of rain was hard to push from her thoughts. Cicero did not take it seriously but she knew death by exposure was just as real as death by blade.

By midday they made it well into the thicket that choked the mountains before the wind began to pick up again, swaying the branches together and whipping at the exposed flesh of her face. It carried with it hissing sounds, at first harmonizing with the trees but growing louder, becoming more distinct. Soon she realized it was the whispers again and her skin crawled with the realization that she was wide awake, with no excuses as to why she should be hearing it again. She glanced at Cicero out of the corner of her eye to see him faced forward and unfazed, clearly not hearing or caring about whatever it was that was in her ear. When she tried to ignore them they grew louder, and when she felt like it was directly behind her she shut her eyes and shook her head trying to snap herself out of whatever the hell was taking hold of her. To her relief, it did work to subdue and quiet them but it was still there, indistinct and lurking behind her.

Cicero giggled and raised a brow at her. “What was that? Did you have a bug on you?”

“No, just a shiver,” she replied quickly, trying her best not to sound irritable. “Cicero, could you sing for me please?”

Cicero gasped and his jaw hung wide for a moment. “Do you mean it, truly? You like to hear Cicero sing?” He breathed. “You don’t find it… bothersome?”

“I promise you it would be a massive comfort to me to hear you sing right now. Any song, I don’t care.” _Anything to drown this out._

He cleared his throat before beginning, “Ho ho ho, hee hee hee,” His voice was high pitched and distracting. She really didn’t mind his psychotic little songs, in fact they were usually rather amusing.

“...break that lute across my knee...”

She could barely hear anything now, Cicero’s shrill voice was doing well to keep the whispers at bay, or at least mask them. When she couldn’t hear them at all anymore she allowed herself to relax and try to doze off. Her comfort was short lived when the thunder came again, this time followed by the slowly building patter of raindrops. _Oblivion take it all._

It was only a light rain but every drop that hit her face was freezing and she could already feel the bedroll beginning to dampen. She had not been comfortable the entire trip but she was starting to feel down right miserable. The numbing cold made her long for her bed back at the Cathouse, warm and familiar. There were many times where her room there had felt like a prison but it was the only home she knew. It was always loud there with a soundtrack of forced laughter and moans, the stuffy hot air thick with perfumed incense. Her mind drifted to Saraji and she wondered what happened after she left. She must’ve been beside herself when she found the boy. She wondered if she had tried to dispose of the body or offered him up quickly to try to appeal to the Motierre’s sense of mercy. _Likely the latter,_ she thought sourly.

Hours went by as she and Cicero climbed through the forest making their way up to the Jeralls. The pace was agonizing but risking injury to the horses was out of the question. The rain was steady through the day but thankfully stopped around sunset. That night when they made camp she and her bedroll were soaked. Cicero had built another fire for them and she hovered as close as possible trying to warm and dry herself.

Her bedroll had been wrung out about a hundred times and she laid it out over a large rock that was near the fire hoping it would help to dry it out. As she flattened it out her eyes drifted over to the wagon, and an inexplicable cold shiver ran down her spine as she looked at Cicero’s trunk. _His mother,_  she reminded herself. It was obvious even through his ridiculousness that Cicero wasn’t being totally forthcoming about his mother’s supposed corpse and the reasons behind his wanting to move it to Skyrim. Far be it from her to question it though, somehow she already knew Cicero was dangerous and didn’t care to provoke him by prodding him with unnecessary inquiries. And besides, all she really cared about was getting somewhere relatively safe to start over. What he did was his own business so long as he didn’t try to kill her along the way. So far he seemed to be taking a liking to her, all things considered.

“Oh Min!”, came his singsong voice. “Are you hungry? Cicero saved some salted haunches if you’re feeling peckish,” he said while waving the leg at her. She moved to sit beside him, taking the haunch as she did. He had cooked it over the fire until parts of it were black but she didn’t care. It was warm and wonderfully pleasing, though it did tempt her to sip some of her skooma. She considered it briefly but decided against it. The strange whispers she had heard faded away through the day and she had decided it must be from the drink. Instead she washed down the salty meat with her water skin.

While she ate Cicero drew the ebony dagger at his waist and an apple from his bag. Quickly and carefully he removed the skin and cut it in half, handing one of the halves to her. She eyed him as he twirled the blade between his fingers as he munched.

“You’re quite good with it aren’t you?” She asked.

A wide grin spread across his face and he looked at her from the corner of his eyes. “Does my lady have an eye for the art? A hand guided by steel? An ear... for silence?” His voice was low and dark, but excitement shown on his face.

She raised a brow at him. “Um, not exactly.” Her eyes went back to the blade, polished and reflecting the flames of the campfire. “I’ve always liked them. I had one when I was little I played with a lot but no one ever taught me how to use it properly. After that one got taken away I stole another but I had to keep it hidden. I only ever had the chance to use it a couple of times.” She reached into her sleeve and pulled out the blade, showing it to him in the light. It was just a plain iron dagger, nothing special or beautiful like his. His gloved hand thumbed the flat of the blade, bringing it down across it with a slight pressure. He clicked his tongue.

“Oh no, that will never do. This blade isn’t sharp enough to cut a wheel of cheese!” He erupted into a shrill, hysteric laughter at his own jest that caused the horses to start slightly. At her deadpanned expression he stopped and cleared his throat. “Worry not, Cicero will help.” He pulled a stone from his pocket and held it carefully as he ran it over the edge of her dagger. The fluid movement of his hand told her he had done this thousands of times before. She tried to make note of how he was holding the stone but he was moving too quickly for her to see it.

“Can you teach me?” She asked. Cicero stopped and stared at her for a moment before another eerie smile spread across his face.

“Cicero would be honored to teach his new friend.” He handed her dagger back and held the stone in his hand, showing her where to place her fingers. “Like this, you see? Hold it firm, but don’t squeeze it. Keep the angle straight.” She made a few swipes with Cicero correcting her before setting into a rhythm with the stone correctly sharpening the blade. Cicero squealed quietly to himself watching her. “Oh, that’s perfect. A perfect blade for stab, stab, stabbing!”

Her gaze went from the blade back to Cicero’s manic dark eyes, the reflection of the campfire illuminating his irises and making him look even more intense than usual. How many people had Cicero watched as the life died from their eyes? When was the last time Cicero had been subjected to someone else’s will? “Do you think you could show me to how to wield it?”

Cicero chuckled, “Cicero would love nothing more, but sadly we won’t have time on our short journey.” Her face fell and he quickly added, “But there are a few things I can show you...”

“Yes, please, anything.” She wasn’t sure why Cicero was compelled to be so kind to her but she wasn’t about to waste the opportunity. She gripped her dagger with the blade up, her thumb and index finger wrapped just under the hilt. “Is this even how I’m supposed to be holding it?”

Cicero made a humming sound. “Well yes, it can be, depending on your position. You’ll want to be able to switch your grip quickly to be effective. When you play with knives, you must be nimble or you will die.” Cicero imitated her grip on his own dagger and used his fingers to twirl the handle around for him to grab it with his pinky just above the hilt, like an ice pick. “When it’s time to kill, hold it like this. It gives your strike more power, and you’ll need all the help you can get with those dainty arms of yours,” he giggled.

She huffed a sigh. He was right, she wasn’t about to overpower anyone with pure strength being as small as she was. She held the blade like he demonstrated and sliced up and down in the air.

“If you aim to kill, make sure you’re stabbing and not slicing. Get them in the heart if you can. If they’re wearing armor, try to find openings between the plates on their sides. Keep practicing, keep getting swifter and you may live through a real fight.” His words were meant as a warning but his voice was delighted.

“I will,” she whispered. She was so tired of feeling powerless in every aspect of her life. At least now maybe she could work toward regaining some control again. She twirled the blade in her hand like he showed her, slowly at first until she got the motion down. As she practiced, Cicero happily sang as he went back to honing his own blade and stoking the fire. When she grew tired she laid against the rock where her bedroll was, dagger still in hand. The bedroll was still damp but it was more comfortable than sleeping on the ground. Between the sounds of Cicero softly singing and the scraping of his whetstone on blade, she was beginning to doze off but kept waking after a few minutes due to the cold. She drifted in and out and in her drowsy state she noticed Cicero was now silent and presumably asleep.

When she woke next the fire was down to embers and presumably hours had passed. She jumped when a piercing sound came from the woods, the distinct cry of a sobbing infant. Her cloudy mind grappled with her confusion and weariness as she looked around for Cicero, unable to spot him in the low lighting of the camp. “Cicero,” she whispered, but there was no reply. Again she heard the child wail, fear beginning to wake her as she knew something was terribly wrong. There was no reason for an infant to be out in the wilds like this, they hadn’t seen a soul on the road since they passed through the highlands. Why in Oblivion would there be a baby here? The crying kept on and the horses began to stir nervously. Where was Cicero? It frightened her to not have him there.

The wailing was grating and dread formed in her stomach as she lit a lantern from what was left of their fire and forced herself to her feet. It sounded like it was coming from behind her, and she turned to stare into the blackness. With her lantern in one hand she drew her dagger with the other, holding it like Cicero had shown her. Slowly she walked into the woods, towards the cry, constantly looking around for anything that might try to sneak up on her. “Cicero!” She whispered harshly. The sounds of her footsteps crunching the leaves made her cringe, strangely loud even with the sobbing. The further she walked the louder it grew, and she could no longer see the faint glow of their campsite.

Suddenly the cries stopped and the flame of her lantern blew out. “No!” She whispered as fear gripped her heart in the pitch black of the forest. She steeled herself from bolting and took deep breaths, trying desperately to calm her pounding pulse, her fear and the cold causing her to shake like a leaf. She stood still for a minute, waiting to hear if anything around her moved. When there was nothing but silence and she slowly began walking forward again, her hand holding the useless lantern held out before her to feel for any obstacles. She stopped in her tracks when she heard a low moan come from behind her, sounding tortured and strained. Her grip on her dagger was like iron as her heart raced. She heard no footfalls around her, _how_ did this thing get so close to her?

All questions fell from her mind as a piercing scream erupted in her ear, a terrible mix of the infant’s cry and some monstrous roar, so close she could feel the hot breath ghosting against her skin. She dropped the lantern and sprinted forward, fleeing from whatever it was, heart racing as she blindly tore through the forest. She could hear it, whatever it was, behind her and just out of reach. She ran with her arms out in attempt to save herself from sprinting right into a tree and the branches tore at the thin fabric of her dress and her skin.

Just when she thought she might have put some distance between her and the creature her boot caught on something and she flew forward, and she threw her arms in front of her to brace herself for the impact on the hard ground, but it never came. Instead she kept falling as if she had leap from a cliff, descending deeper into the blackness, and as she looked up she could see the forest floor had disappeared and the silhouette of the treeline contrasting against the night sky, their trunks now melting into the blackness. Slowly they grew and downward and twisted together, forming mangled monoliths delving into the abyss below. As she fell the darkness of the forest permeated from the treeline and began to swallow the night sky, the inky blackness blotting out the stars and a cold chill seeped into her as the abyss seemed to consume her. She watched as the last of the night sky above was swallowed by the gloom, spreading across on it’s own accord as if it were a living thing. With the last of the starlight consumed she was left in the murk, pressure weighing her body down, pulling her deeper. She was still falling, how deep was it? The darkness grew textured around her, silk coils wrapping around her body and face. She tried to tear them away and just as quickly more tendrils constricted her. They seeped into her mouth, filling her lungs and began to suffocate her when she squeezed her eyes shut and screamed.

When she opened them she was no longer falling but back at the campsite, standing before Cicero’s trunk, grasping onto it so tightly her knuckles were white. The sensation of free falling ending so abruptly with her standing there on solid ground was so disorienting she stumbled back and fell, desperately trying to catch her breath as her pulse hammered in her ears. She frantically looked around and saw Cicero sleeping undisturbed in his bedroll, his back to her and facing the forest. Trembling, she looked down at her hands and saw her fingers curling in on themselves on their own as if she had been gripping the trunk for quite awhile. _What in Oblivion just happen_ _ed_ _?_ She looked up at the trunk and felt the same chill down her spine as before and quickly scrambled away from it and towards the remains of the fire. This time, she kept her back to the fire and sat clutching her dagger as she watched the wagon.

Everything was quiet now except the soft crackling of the embers but her heart was still pounding. She couldn’t have dreamed that, could she? It had felt so real… she could still feel the sensation of the darkness creeping down her throat and it made her stomach turn. _Was it some strange manner of Daedra?_  She stared at Cicero’s trunk as if something were about to break out of it. _Or Cicero’s ‘Mother’… who knows what’s really in there._ There was something off about it she couldn’t place, it made her uneasy to be too close. After everything that happened that night she suspected that Cicero was smuggling a Daedric artifact in what he claimed to be his mother’s coffin. It would explain why he was so adamant about no one going near it and why he was so flippant in regards to the skooma. After all, what’s skooma to a Daedra worshiper?

She spotted her satchel next to her bedroll and quickly snatched it up, digging through it while still looking around, afraid to look down for too long. When she felt the smooth glass of her skooma bottle relief washed over her before it ever reached her lips. _If I’m going to be killed by some Dremora I might as well enjoy myself until it happens._

In truth she knew very little about Daedra. When she was little, Saraji would tell her that if she ventured outside the city walls that creatures would rise up from the soil and pull her into the depths of Oblivion with them. It had worked until she was seven, when she slipped out to the Waterfront district during the New Life festival. Saraji had been distracted enough seeing to all the revelers spilling in the brothel due to the holiday and Minerva had been left unattended for the evening as she was too young to work. So instead she crept away to the Temple district and couldn’t resist when she heard the raucous sounds from the parties outside of the gate. That night the Waterfront was filled with sailors, beggars, thieves and whores and anyone who simply wanted to drink their troubles away under the guise of celebration. Most there were too drunk to pay her any mind, or if they did they offered her food or sips of sweet wine. The streets were alive with music and everyone seemed to be laughing. It was one of her fondest memories as a child and it reinforced something that she already knew- that Saraji was a liar. Yet as she sat there in the woods, clutching her knife and remembering the sensation of falling into the blackness, she couldn’t help but remember her warning.

After awhile of listening and waiting for something else to happen she began to doze off and jerk wake up repeatedly, her body exhausted but unable to be at relax after what had happened. Hours passed with fitful bouts of sleep, never fully resting or alert. When daylight began to light the clouds over the horizon, she was awoken abruptly again but this time by Cicero dropping her bag heavily in front of her. She jumped back slightly before realizing it was him and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She was so cold she could hardly even feel her fingers anymore and her jaw quivered involuntarily. When she looked up at Cicero she taken back by his hard expression, his dark eyes staring her down like an enemy.

The sudden change from his happy and helpful demeanor the night before threw her. “W-what’s wrong?”

Cicero’s eyes narrowed at her. “Cicero is tired of waiting on you. Too much time has been wasted and I must get Mother to Falkreath. Get in the wagon.”

There was no humor to his voice and for once he sounded surprisingly sane. She stared at him for a moment, unable to help being unnerved by his sudden change in attitude, before gathering her things as quickly as she could while her body was so painfully sore and cold. This would be the hardest day yet. She was beyond exhausted, mentally strained, and today they would breach the mountain pass. She could only pray that no falling rock would impede them any further.

She loaded her bag onto the wagon and crawled onto the front seat where Cicero sat glowering at her. “What?” She snapped. “There was nothing stopping you from waking me earlier. Are you going to sulk about it all day now or can we get going?”

Cicero’s expression turned slightly sheepish, but his eyes stayed narrowed. He let out a ‘hmph’ before snapping the reigns and setting them off down the road.

That day Cicero stayed silent during their journey, which would’ve concerned her if she weren’t so distracted by how blistering cold it was. They were at a significantly higher altitude now that they were making their way through the pass and with every breath her body heat depleted in visible clouds. When the rain started up, she began to worry again. The trees weren’t as dense this high and so they were more exposed than they had been before. Her bedroll was still cold and damp and wouldn’t do anything to warm her now. It especially didn’t help that was she never able to warm up over night or even get decent rest.

It didn’t take long for the light rain to turn into a downpour. Cicero sat statuesque in his seat, his profile blocked from her view by the hood of his cloak. He hadn’t looked at her at all since that morning. She was shivering violently and struggling to keep her bottom jaw still. She truly wasn’t sure how much longer she could handle this. She didn’t know how far Falkreath was from the mountain range but she assumed they had at least another day before they’d arrive. She tried to focus on telling herself Falkreath was just down the valley, how with every turn of their wagon wheel they were that much closer, how the rain can’t last forever.

The path Cicero had taken wound through a jagged tear in the mountains with large overhanging rock jutting out from either side. It was uneven, at times wide enough to fit three carriages and other times so narrow they barely fit. It was easy to see why this was a more or less an unused path. Every time they hit a dip in the road she cringed and prayed they didn’t damage a wheel or get it stuck in the mud. The rain continued for hours and the winds through the pass were unforgiving. The torrent whipped at their faces like tiny pieces of ice and beat down hard on their wagon. It was the worse rainfall they’d experienced yet on the trip and it didn’t look as though it let up anytime soon.

When she couldn’t take it anymore she dug into her satchel and grabbed her skooma bottle. Cicero turned to watch her and this time she didn’t care if he saw her do it, but her hands were shaking so badly that she was having trouble getting the cork out. When she finally got a grip on it the bottle had become so slick with rain that it slipped from her hands. She cursed and went to grab it from the floor of their seat but Cicero beat her to it. When she looked up at him his expression fractured and his brows knit in concern. “Why Min,” he said as he took her chin in his hand and ran his gloved thumb over her bottom lip, “You look like death warmed over.. your lips are the most beautiful shade of blue.” He almost sounded amused.

She jerked out of his grasp and went for the bottle in his hand but he kept it out of her reach. “What are you doing?” She asked, exacerbated. “Give it to me, it’ll help.”

He pulled out a small black vial from one of his pockets and uncorked her bottle, carefully tapping the vial over the opening. Glowing red granules fell from the vial into the skooma with a hissing sound. He swirled the bottle around before handing it back to her and she immediately noticed how it was now warm to the touch. She eagerly brought it to her lips and drank, the warmth so much fiercer than normal as it cut through the numbness of her body. The relief was intense at first as it spread through her limbs down to her fingers and toes. “Gods, that’s so much better. I feel like I can breathe again. What was that? Fire salts?”

Cicero looked over at her from the corner of his eye, seemingly trying to appear aloof. “Yes. Cicero came prepared, unlike you.”

“You’re right,” she conceded as she put away what little remained of her stash, “I was so preoccupied with getting out of Chorrol that I hardly gave it any thought. Thank you.”

He opened his mouth like he was going to respond but stopped and turned his attention back to the road.

“What’s wrong with you?” She demanded. “You’ve been acting strange.. well, stranger than normal all day. You can’t seriously still be upset that I slept in.”

Cicero turned to face her suddenly, his expression dark. “What did you dream of last night?”

The question took her by surprise. “What? What does that have to do with anything?” How did he know?

“More than you know,” he said in a quiet voice. “Answer me, Min.”

She stared at him for a moment, apprehensive about revealing too much even to someone like Cicero, who probably wouldn’t even think she was insane. “I dreamt there was a child in the forest,” she began, “I could hear them sobbing… I tried to find them but I got lost. When I tried to find my way back I fell into an abyss.” Cicero’s expression was unchanged and she sighed. “It felt so _real._  I could feel myself falling, it was suffocating. When I opened my eyes I was back at camp. It was like I had been there the entire time, like I never even fell asleep.” She intentionally left out the part where she came to in front of his Mother’s trunk. She could only imagine what kind of reaction he would have to that.

“An abyss? What kind of abyss?” His was looking at her with so much intent, like he was searching her face for any signs of deception.

“What kind of question is that?” She replied in an annoyed tone. “It was just a dream, it didn’t mean anything.”

“Dreams? Meaningless?” He asked in disbelief. “Surely sweet Min is not so ignorant. Dreams are where secrets are revealed, where the Gods come to tinker and influence and weave their webs.” Some of the humor was returning to his voice to her relief.

She scoffed. “Yes, I’m sure all the Gods are scrambling to communicate with a runaway whore.”

He surprised her again when he suddenly took her hand. “Whores, jesters, kings, it matters not. We all return to the void in the end.”

She opened her mouth to reply when the heavy impact of arrows piercing the wagon cut her off. Before she could turn around to see where they had come from Cicero snapped the reigns and quickly pulled her down into the leg space of the seat. The wagon jolted forward as the horses broke into a run, slamming her back into the seat.

“Stay low, I’ll be back.” He whispered before slipping out the other side of the seat and out of her view.

Two more thuds hit the wagon and she looked up to see that an arrow had made it inside the seat and dangerously close to where she lay. Adrenaline was pumping through her veins and she scrambled to the other side, leaning her head to see if she could see where Cicero went but the rain was too heavy and obscuring her view. When she looked the other way she panicked when she saw the wagon heading straight into a bend in the road where a rocky outcrop jutted into their path, the horses seemingly too frightened to know to correct their trajectory. She groped for the reins, raising up on her knees just high enough to yank their bridles in the other direction, causing them to veer sharply and sending her flying nearly out of the wagon completely before she caught herself on the ledge of the seat. More arrows shot through the rain with a hissing sound and hit the coffins loaded on the back. When the horses came to an abrupt stop amid the road being washed away from the rain and she was thrown from her unsteady grip on the seat into the mud beside the wheels.

Somewhere through the rain behind her she could hear a gurgled cry and the sound of Cicero’s hysteric laughter. The horses were panicked and struggling against their binds to the wagon, and she pushed herself to her feet to grab their bridle and lead them to the higher part of the road where it was more solid, staying ducked low as she did. She couldn’t hear anymore arrows, maybe Cicero had already gotten to them. She fought to pull them along and away from the thick mud, but the horses were spooked and resisting her. If they got stuck or broke a leg there’s no way they would make it to Falkreath. Nearby the ringing of blades clashing echoed off the rocks. She internally cursed their luck, trying to look around to make sure no one was after her but she still couldn’t even see Cicero.

An intense impact came down on the back of her head and for a moment her vision went white. When she came to she was on the ground again, her head swimming and her ears ringing. She struggled to rise to her hands and knees before an iron plated boot kicked her in the stomach, knocking all the wind from her and sending her back into the mud. Above her was a man, a Nord, wearing mismatched pieces of iron armor and carrying a crude axe. There was another man just out of her view behind the wagon. The Nord said something to his companion before turning back to her and kicking her in the ribs again and again. He had her at such a disadvantage that all she could do was curl in on herself to try and shield his attacks.

“Is it even a woman? Too filthy to tell… “ Someone said, but it sounded distant. Her ears were still ringing loudly from the assault.

_Kill._ A voice whispered somewhere in her mind, somewhere just as far away as the man in front of her sounded. He drew back his leg to kick her again and instinctively she curled into a fetal position to protect her ribs, but instead he kicked her head with so much force it snapped her around facing in the other direction, setting her face alight with pain. He struck the axe into the mud beside them and fell to his knees on top of her, straddling her legs on either side.

_Kill him._ The voice again, the same one she had heard on the woods before, the same one as in her dream. It was closer now but she couldn’t afford to spare it a thought as she tried in vain to shield his punches coming at her head and upper torso. The pain was blinding and the weight of his iron armor dug painfully into her skin through the thin fabric of her dress. He stopped only for a brief pause, adjusting his position on her, and even the few seconds of being spared from his onslaught were a desperate relief.

_Kill him, child! Send his soul to the Void!_ The voice hissed seemingly in her ear, she wanted to obey but she could hardly move. Her body was wracked with pain and when she tried to lift her head it felt heavier than the wagon itself. He ripped off his helmet before he leaned forward again, roughly grabbing her face in his hands and gripping tightly, causing her to cry out. “Looks like you’re a girl after all,” he mocked, “you ever been fucked girl?” He slammed her back into the ground and she could hear laughter nearby. _Not Cicero’s,_  she thought helplessly.

_KILL HIM NOW!_  The voice roared at her, and as he grabbed the side of her dress and tore the fabric up to her waist she could see his neck unprotected where his helmet had been. When he faced down to free his cock from his armor, she forced herself to move, seizing her opportunity and quickly grabbing her dagger from its sheath on her upper arm and plunging it into his neck. Instantly his hands came up and grabbed her arms but it was too late, his eyes were wide as saucers as she struggled against his grip to pull the knife out far enough to stab it in again, and again, and again before his weight started to go limp and she forced him to fall off of her to the side.

_Yes, YES! A beautiful sacrifice for the Dread Father!_ The voice shouted, and she straddled him to bring her blade down on him again, her adrenaline and fear beginning to mix with a queer twinge of excitement as she made a bloody ruin of him, his blood quickly covering them both all over and seeping beautifully into the water all around them. She was lost in it, lost in _him,_ savoring the feeling of power over someone who thought they could fuck her and take her and kill her. She brought the dagger down again but cried out when her hand slipped from the handle, slick with blood and rainwater, and sliced open her hand. “Fuck!” She cried, grabbing her wounded hand at the wrist as hard as she could.

She had forgotten about the other man and apparently had gotten his attention from whatever he had been doing, as he came up behind her and violently grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her back. “What the fuck?” He said in disbelief, seeing his companion laying dead under her. “You dead fucking bitch!” He shouted, and she tried to grab for the dagger in the Nord’s neck but the other man had pulled her back too far to reach it. Her hands went to grab at his fist in her hair but it did no good. He lifted his sword, aiming it at her chest and preparing to run her through with it when he suddenly stopped, his body jerking for a moment and making a squelching sound before dropping his sword and falling forward. Cicero came forward and withdrew his ebony dagger from the base of the man’s skull, wiping it off on his sleeve before sheathing it again.

“That was fun!” He exclaimed, his voice full of mirth and a merry grin on his face. She sat there on her knees, hands trembling, covered in blood and body searing with pain as she looked on at Cicero and the two corpses before him. He reached down at retrieved her blade from the Nord, cleaning it off for her before offering it back to her. “Welcome to Skyrim!” He laughed hysterically.

“Cicero,” Her voice sounded weak and cracked pathetically. If he had shown up just a few seconds later…

Cicero dropped to his knees beside her and carefully examined her wounded hand. “Oh Min, look what you’ve gone and done.” Her turned it over and spread apart her fingers, causing the wide cut across her palm and stretch open and sending a jolt of deep pain down her arm. “Tsk, tsk. We really must get you a proper pair of gloves. This will never do.”

She sat helplessly as he dug around in the wagon. The rain had started to let up and she noticed how the blood from the two men had spread across nearly the entire road. The Nord she killed stared up at grey skies with still blue eyes. She thought of the Motierre boy in her room at the Cathouse and how oddly similar their expressions were. They had both felt so much more powerful than the small woman beneath them, completely in control. She tried to imagine the shock they must have felt when they realized she had won.

Cicero appeared beside her again, this time putting his arm around her waist and gently helping her to feet and to the wagon. She sat down as he opened a pouch of some strange salve and what looked like a fresh bottle of skooma. “Is that from Alcor’s shipment?” She questioned.

“Oh yes,” he said without a care as he poured the skooma over her cut and she jerked back with a gasping cry. The burning pain from the liquid was intense and left her hand throbbing.

“ _Fuck!”_ She cried, hissing in a sharp breath through her teeth, “Ugh, you can’t just help yourself to his skooma! He’s going to have people waiting to count it all, you realize that right?” When his only response was a raised brow she continued, “He could have us both killed if he thinks we’ve stolen from him.”

He chuckled at her outburst. “Cicero thinks you’re being a little over dramatic. It’s merely a single bottle, if the Redguard is upset Cicero will simply pay the man for it.” He pulled off his glove and dipped his fingers into the salve, carefully applying it to her cut. It felt surprisingly soothing on her inflamed flesh. “Unless of course he prefers sweet Min lose a limb to infection. Though Cicero doubts it very much.”

She kept silent, conceding his point. She watched him as he tenderly dressed her wound, wrapping it in fresh linen strips, something she would’ve never thought to bring. She had thought him completely mad when she first met him but he had thought of everything. Perhaps he wasn’t insane so much as just… eccentric. He had never once been forced to be kind to her. He could’ve easily let the bandits kill her, taking what remained of her payment from Alcor for himself and making it to Falkreath without the dead weight that she was. His expression was so focused as he finished wrapping her up that she remembered a comment he had made before about tending to his mother. _Maybe he wasn’t lying after all. But then what is it that’s been haunting me since we left?_

“Cicero,” She spoke up. He released her hand and looked up at her with a curious expression. “Thank you.”

He smiled back at her and giggled, “Oh don’t think anything of it. Cicero lives to serve, that’s merely a simply bandage but will do until we reach Falkreath.”

“No, I mean for everything. That man was a moment away from cutting me down... you saved my life. And how many more did you kill?”

A bashful grin spread across his face. “Oh, not many. There were three others hiding behind the rocks. They wanted to ambush Cicero but they were amateurs, so loud in their oafish movements. They didn’t hear me until the first one fell.”

“That’s incredible,” she marveled. “I’m jealous. I could barely hear anything in the rain, that lumbering bastard snuck right up on me. Yet you managed to ambush the people ambushing us.” She laughed quietly. “I feel so weak.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong sweet Min.” He put his arm around her shoulder and pointed towards the dead Nord. “If you were weak, you wouldn’t have killed him. It’s not strength you lack, just skill. That can be remedied.”

She thought of the voice that spoke to her during the assault. Would she have killed him if it didn’t urge her on? She liked to think that she would’ve. But she couldn’t help but feel like it was reaching towards something inside of her, like stoking a fire. She wanted to know what it was and just what exactly it was trying to awaken within her.

She shivered fiercely as the wind picked up, remembering how the man had torn open her dress and left her exposed. “Oblivion take it all, of course I didn’t think to buy another dress either.” She unbuckled the belt that she wrapped around her arm for her dagger and moved it to her waist, struggling to awkwardly fasten it with her injured hand. It didn’t do much to help keep her warm but it did at least keep her somewhat covered, not that modesty was of much concern to her. She would’ve been able to tell by now if Cicero was interested in her anyway. From what she had gathered she doubted he had much interest in anyone at all.

They took the time to go over the all the bodies, taking anything of value they could. Luckily for them it seemed the bandits had their share of victims before ambushing them as their coin purses were heavy. Minerva was delighted to find one of the archers that Cicero had killed was wearing a thick wool cloak which she eagerly wore over her own thin linen one. She also took a bow and a quiver of arrows, she didn’t know how to use them but figured they could at least sell them when they reached Falkreath if nothing else. Cicero had managed to find some alchemy ingredients he had deemed useful and was pleased. By the time they had finished looting and getting the wagon and horses back on to solid footing again the dim light that had barely lit up the grey skies that day was fading. Tonight they wouldn’t bother to make camp. They had officially breached Skyrim and there was no point in stopping now, it would only slow them down and make them into targets again.

They had come down from the mountain pass now into the thick pine forest that covered the Falkreath hold. Minerva was unusually content, having drank the last of the fire salt laced skooma that Cicero had prepared for her along with what remained of the bottle he had opened. Her body had gone through horrible waves of pain before the skooma lulled it to a warm, dull ache. She laid across the seat, her head resting slightly on Cicero’s thigh as she savored her buzz and gazed at the sky, finally becoming visible through the clouds after so many days of rain. Warm shades of pink and orange glowed from behind the grey coverage and stars were beginning to peak through the veil of Aetherius in the darker corners of the sky. Tomorrow they would arrive in Falkreath and she and Cicero would go their separate ways. She would be alone again like she was in Chorrol.

_Or maybe not so alone after all,_  she thought, wondering if the voice would return to her again. At the start of their trip she thought she would be elated to be rid of Cicero, but what if she truly was going mad? At least she’d be in good company. There was her theory about his mother’s coffin actually holding a Daedric artifact, but she doubted it now. Perhaps it was the skooma but she found herself trusting Cicero’s word.

“Cicero,” her throat was dry and her voice came out hoarse. She swallowed before continuing. “Do you ever hear voices?”

“Silly Min, of course I do. I hear yours, and my own, and so many others!”

She sighed. “No, I mean in your head. When no one’s around.” _Or when they are._

“Oh.” He stayed quiet for a moment and she wondered if he understood what she meant. Her mind was hazy from the skooma and she couldn’t be bothered to try any harder to explain it. She was willing to let it go when he spoke up again. “There was one before. A wonderful laughter that kept Cicero company…” He released a sad sigh. “But it’s gone now.”

“Laughter, huh.” Her eyes were stinging and she squeezed them shut with a yawn. “Well, never mind then. That’s definitely nothing like what I heard.”

“And what did you hear?” It must’ve piqued his interest because his voice was back to its normal high pitch.

_Oh, where to start._ “I’m not really sure, it was back when those men were attacking us and that Nord had me on the ground. I heard something, it didn’t even really sound human. It kept demanding that I kill him. To send him to the father or something… Gods, I sound ridiculous. Ignore me, it’s probably just the skooma.”

Cicero suddenly yanked back on the reins, bringing the horses to an abrupt and noisy halt and almost sending her toppling off the seat. “What are you doing? Why are we stopped?” She demanded. She shot up and was looking all around them, concerned he had spotted another bandit. But instead of answering her he grabbed her by the shoulders to face him, and she found his expression just as stern and serious as when he had woken her up that morning.

“What did it say about the father?” he demanded.

“Calm down,” her head was swimming and she wasn’t very confident in her ability to quote anything verbatim. “It was telling me to send the father his soul. The dread father, I think.”

Cicero’s face fractured and his eyebrows knit together and she actually thought he might cry. “Truly?” His voice was nearly cracking. “What else did it tell you?”

“Just to kill. That’s all.” He looked so damn emotional. “Cicero, it’s okay. I’ve been sneaking skooma behind your back since we left. I’m sure it’s just a side effect from it. It didn’t mean anything.” _Except I’m no lightweight, and I didn’t drink nearly enough to get me right and fucked up._

Cicero pulled her into a fierce embrace. “But it did, don’t you see? That wasn’t just a voice you heard, and it wasn’t just a dream you had.”

He squeezed her tight and she gasped a bit at the pain through her torso. “Let go, you’re hurting me.”

He quickly released her, holding his hands up in apology. “Sorry, forgot.” He giggled. “Cicero is just so happy! Finally, the Dread Father has sent another child serve Mother. And poor, sweet, loyal Cicero will not have to be alone anymore!”

She stared at him, thoroughly confused. “Are you talking about your mother? Or is this some kind of weird metaphor?”

“Not my mother,” he corrected, “ _our_ mother. Our lady is the Night Mother, and you are being called into the Brotherhood. Don’t you see? The abyss you fell into wasn’t just some dream, you were touching the Void! Gah! I’m so happy I could burst!” He squealed excitedly.

“Brotherhood...?” Realization dawned on her face. “The Dark Brotherhood?” When a wide grin spread across Cicero’s face she balked at him, “But that’s impossible, they were destroyed years ago. Completely wiped...“ She stopped, remembering him telling her about his family. _Slaughtered like animals._

“Not completely. Our sanctuaries were sacked and my brothers and sisters murdered, but I have protected the Matron all these years. The Dark Brotherhood will live so long as she is in tact.”

“Wait, wait.” Her head was swimming. “Slow down. So you’re an assassin from some ancient cult… and you think because I had a dream where I fell in a hole that I’m being called by some… spiritual being, to be a murderer? I can barely even defend myself!”

“Problems with simple solutions, dear sister. Cicero would be honored to help you when we arrive at our new home. We just need to-”

“New home?” She interrupted. “And when did I say I’m going with you? I don’t even understand what you’re talking about, I haven’t heard about the Dark Brotherhood since I was a child. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not exactly religious.”

Cicero clicked his tongue and shook his head, a smile still fixed on his face. “You may think that, but not everyone is brought into the Brotherhood this way. You have the most organic connection to Sithis you could possibly have, the joy of sending a soul to him in the Void, to hear the call within.”

She crossed her arms and faced forward again, suddenly feeling frustrated. “Why are we stopped? Can’t we have this conversation while moving?”

Cicero’s smile finally fell at her dismissal. “But Min, isn’t this what you wanted?” She looked at him again, not following. “To feel powerful, to wield death in your hands? Do not lie to Cicero, he could see it in your eyes.”

She glared at him for a moment before conceding. “Who _doesn’t_ want to be strong? Maybe I only wanted to learn enough to keep rapist bandits at bay, it doesn’t mean I’m ready to make a living out of it.”

Cicero’s started to say something but stopped, looking frustrated. “But this is the Dread Father’s will. You don’t understand what an honor it is to hear his words in such a way. This was meant to be!”

She frowned. “You don’t know that.”

 “I do,” he pleaded. “You asked me this morning why I was upset. You remember?” She didn’t respond, but just raised an eyebrow at him. “I was trying to figure out if I was supposed to kill you or not.” Her mouth fell open in shock and he quickly continued. “That night you were reciting the Night Mother’s prayer. Over and over, I watched you for quite some time. You didn’t stop until you woke. I didn’t know if it was Mother’s way of trying to show me that you were chosen by the Black Sacrament. But I see now, she was showing poor Cicero that he finally has family again. True family, procured by the Night Mother herself… not a pretending, blasphemous heretic..” He finished in a low mutter.

“I don’t know what the Night Mother’s prayer is, I don’t know _any_ prayers.” She sighed deeply, thinking she made a mistake by even bringing it up. “Can’t we talk about this later when I’m sober? Let’s just keep moving.”

To her relief he at least snapped the reins to get the wagon moving again though he was not deterred in trying to convince her. “Please forgive Cicero. I am but the Keeper, my place is at the base of the hand. If this had happened when the Brotherhood was healthy you would be approached by a Speaker of the Black Hand. Recruitment may not be my responsibility but these are dire times, and I have never been so certain of someone before.”

She wasn’t sure if that should give her confidence or not. It was too much to process at once, the Dark Brotherhood had always just been a childhood horror story. It certainly wasn’t the explanation she had been expecting for her experiences. “Let’s just talk about it later. I’m tired. I just want to go to sleep and wake up in Falkreath and be off this damn wagon.” She laid back across the seat, reminded again of how sore her body was when every bit of contact with the wood ached.

“Fine, fine. Rest now sweet sister. Cicero will make sure we make it to the city by tomorrow.”

Thankfully aside from humming a jaunty tune Cicero did keep quiet enough for her to drift off to a dreamless sleep. The road was still rough and she would wake from time to time when they hit uneven ground. But most of all she was just grateful that the rain had finally ended.

 

* * *

 

 

When Cicero roused her from sleep the sky was light again but still overcast. The buzz from her skooma had worn off and she was feeling her injuries anew along with the biting cold air of Skyrim. It was thankfully nothing like it had been when they were being rained out in the mountains but she still shivered and pulled her new cloak around her tighter, remembering how she was barely even wearing a proper dress anymore and would likely stay freezing until she got a new one.

“Wakey, wakey! Cicero has food for you!” As she opened her eyes she could see him dangling a piece of salted beef above her face. She blinked a few times, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before taking the offering and ravenously tearing into it. “Ooh, hungry are we? Just as well. You need to be prepared as soon as possible for what lies ahead.”

She swallowed. “What lies ahead?”

“Introducing you to the sanctuary. After we get rid of all this extra cargo, of course.”

She let out a quick sigh. “I never agreed to that, you need to stop getting ahead of yourself.” She sat up and turned to face him. “You need to understand something Cicero. I didn’t leave one life of being owned just to start a new one taking orders from someone else. I know you think I’m meant for this but I’m still trying to process the fact that the Dark Brotherhood even exists. You need to give me some time to consider this.”

Cicero squirmed a bit in his seat. “We’re only about a few miles from Falkreath. It’ll take some time to be rid of this.. dead weight...“ He giggled at his own jest. “But after that it is imperative that I get Mother to the new sanctuary. She has been above ground for far too long, and I need to tend to her with the sacred oils.” She cringed at the thought. “You’ll need to decide today. If I enter the sanctuary without you I cannot guarantee that they would accept you. This one is not like the rest… “

Minerva looked down at herself, seeing just how filthy she had become over the trip. Her dress was caked with a grim consisting of mud, blood and Gods know what else. She hadn’t seen her reflection since leaving the Imperial City but she could feel how matted and disgusting her hair was. It was by far the longest she had ever gone without a bath as she was always too cold to risk submerging herself in any water to scrub. She could only imagine how her face must look. Bruised, certainly. She could feel a split on her bottom lip, growing tight now as it started to heal. Her entire body ached and would likely be black and blue but the worst was her hand. Now that the skooma had worn off it throbbed terribly and she realized she couldn’t grip it at all. She could see where she had bled through the bandages over her palm; it would likely need it stitched.

“Well, I have a few things I need to take care of first. Like how I’m going to have to charm someone into sewing up my hand when I probably look like the walking dead. And getting a new dress…”

The road they had been traveling on came to merge with another running east and west. To their right was a smaller dirt road leading south off of the road into the thick pine coverage. Cicero turned them down the dirt path that wound between the trees. “Operators of Halls of the Dead are typically well practiced in healing arts. Cicero will persuade the one in Falkreath receiving our Nord friends to help you.” He turned to her with an impish grin. “After all, how will Cicero teach you how to wield a blade if you can’t even hold onto it?”

She relented and smiled back at him. “Yeah, okay. We’ll see about that.” In truth it was the main reason she had not shut down the idea completely. Now that she had seen what Cicero was capable of the offer to have him teach her to fight was extremely tempting. She had never been one to let anyone walk all over her, but to be able to stand a chance against real warriors? That would be something. The idea tickled a growing excitement within her as the more logical part of her mind reminded her that it could take Cicero _years_ to help her be a halfway decent fighter.

They had gone about a half a mile off the road when the path opened to a small clearing with a shabby hut. There was a campfire out front with about a dozen men gathered around. They all started to stand and walk up as she and Cicero approached. _They were prepared for us,_ she thought as she noticed the weapons at their sides.

“Hello, hello friends! Cicero is so very glad to finally find you.” He waved enthusiastically before jumping down from the wagon. A Breton man stepped forward, blonde and handsome with a sculpted face;  the shadow of facial hair across his jaw and upper lip with bright blue eyes. He had a sword at his hip but wore fine clothing rather than armor. She remembered how awful she herself must look and pulled the hood of cloak further down around her face, suddenly very conscious of all the eyes upon them.

“Well met friend.” The Breton replied in a friendly voice, though his eyes seemed less so as they settled on Cicero. One could hardly blame him. “You’ve made good time.”

“Cicero was so eager he did not sleep a wink last night. Your shipment good sir, in full.” He finished with a bow, dramatically motioning to the wagon. It was then that the man saw Minerva.

“The name’s Delacourt.” He made a motion towards the wagon with his head. “And is that Alcor’s contact?” He asked Cicero. She could hear the doubt in his voice. _That’s right, he was expecting some man rotting in Chorrol’s prison._

“Indeed, indeed she is.” He practically skipped back over to her and held out his hand to help her down from the wagon. She reluctantly took it, knowing damn well they were all staring at her now. She normally wasn’t a self conscious person but now just wasn’t the best time to have the attention on her. As she stepped out of the wagon carefully to avoid flashing anyone bare skin under her cloak, she met Delacourt’s gaze and saw his eyes widen upon seeing her face.

“Cicero, was it?” Delacourt said turning back to him. Cicero grinned and nodded. “Why don’t you help my men with unloading your wagon? It looks like you might be taking something back with you.”

“Yes, of course! We must make sure to keep the bodies as in tact as possible for the kindly Hall keeper.” Cicero made eye contact with her before turning away and leaving the two alone.

Delacourt waited until Cicero was out of earshot before whispering to her. “Did he do this to you? Just say the word, and I’ll run him through.”

She could’ve laughed. This man seemed more like a talker than a fighter, and it was difficult to imagine someone unarmored lasting very long against Cicero. “Of course not. We ran into some trouble on the way up.” Delacourt guided her towards the hut as she spoke. “One of the men got me pretty good. I would’ve died if Cicero wasn’t there.”

“Hm,” he grunted, not sounding convinced. The door to the hut was open and she could see a table with half a dozen chairs around it and a shabby broken bed in the corner. In the opposite corner was a sizeable hatch. He motioned to the table and she took a seat across from him. “So how did you get roped into this?”

“Alcor’s original man was arrested in Chorrol. He didn’t have anyone else but we’ve known each other for awhile. When I ran into him he offered to pay me to go with Cicero. He was clearly desperate or I’m sure he would’ve just waited for someone more suitable.” She leaned back in her chair and regarded him coolly. “Speaking of which.”

He chuckled. “In due time. Let’s make sure everything is accounted for, shall we? You didn’t see him skim anything did you?”

“No, he did not. He did every part of his job as he was told, you won’t find any valid reasons to dock his pay.” She said in a stern tone. She knew exactly what he was trying to do. “Oh, except one bottle. But that was for me.” She lifted her bandaged hand to show him. “I’ll pay for that one myself.”

He looked at her for a moment and shook his head. “No, don’t worry about it. It’s the least they can do for putting you through so much. I’ll pay your friend once they’re done unloading.”

Outside the hut, she could hear the sounds of vomiting along with Cicero’s hysteric laughter and smiled to herself, amused by his humor. “It might be awhile.”

Delacourt left to go help the others with unloading the skooma and she helped herself to the bed in the shack. Unfortunately between her hand and the traffic going on around her she wasn’t able to get any sleep, and rather just tossed and turned for awhile. She briefly considered asking to buy another bottle off of them before deciding against it. She didn’t have much gold as it was and she still needed to get some proper clothing.

A few hours had passed before they finished unloading and counting all the bottles. They paid Cicero the gold they had owed him and Delacourt made a point to tell Minerva that she could find him at the Dead Man’s Drink in Falkreath should she ever need to call on him. _Not likely,_  she thought to herself, but still smiled politely his way before leaving with Cicero.

They had already started down the road towards Falkreath when Cicero tossed a bag of coins in her lap. “Your cut, sister.”

She looked at him for a moment before opening the bag and counting them out. _A few hundred pieces. Enough to eat and sleep in a tavern for a few days, or a carriage ride out town._ It seemed a rip off to her. She could’ve made that in a few hours at the Cathouse. “I guess beggars can’t complain.”

Not about to miss the opportunity, Cicero perked up. “Yet another reason to join Cicero. You’ll be paid much better when you work in service to the Night Mother. Sometimes you can even earn a bonus.”

She made a sound of acknowledgment as she tucked the coin purse into her satchel. It was something to consider. She didn’t want to sell her body anymore, so she’d have to come up with something. Maybe if he really was willing to help her it wouldn’t be such a ridiculous arrangement after all.

By the time they were creeping up on Falkreath it was nearly sunset. The city was pretty open, there were wooden ramparts over the two major entrances but otherwise it lacked walls. Cicero had been able to bypass the guarded entrance and rode their wagon straight up to the Hall of the Dead. He did it with such ease that she wondered if this was not his first time here or if his instincts were just that sharp. Cicero dismounted the wagon and helped her down before leaving her at the back door and heading inside. As she waited for him she leaned against the stone of the building listening to the hum of insects around her. It wasn’t very late but Falkreath’s streets were already quiet. Looking down she noticed a few wild sprigs of nightshade growing from the ground and picked them with her good hand, careful not to lose any of the flowers before gently packing them in a small pouch in her satchel.

After awhile the back door of the hall swung open and she saw Cicero standing with an elderly Altmer dressed in a set of orange robes. “Come now, the kindly priest has agreed to fix you up.” Cicero chirped at her, reaching down to help her up. The back entrance of the hall led to the lower basement level, with earthen floors and a large stone slab in the center of the room where bodies would be examined. The walls were lined with shelves deep enough for coffins, though they all looked empty at the moment. The Altmer motioned for her to sit on the table and she obeyed, not really caring about how clean it was. It was hard to imagine anything was more filthy than she was at the moment.

The elder gave her a gentle smile. “I’m Runil, humble servant of Arkay. I can’t properly express my appreciation for the two of you bringing our dead back to us, but if you’d like I can certainly take a look at your hand.” She nodded and began undoing her bandages without a second though. Runil turned as a bulky Nord came down the steps from the main part of the hall. “Kust, won’t you please help our guest unload these coffins?” The man grunted in agreement and followed Cicero back out the door.

With her bandages off she could see how awful her hand looked. Nearly her entire hand was red from blood, the cut was still wide and angry, the skin around the wound was wrinkled and grotesque looking. Seeing it made her stomach turn and she worried about getting the full strength of her grip back. When Runil turned back to her to he gently examined her, carefully moving her fingers about and inspecting the wound.

“Hmm… it seems like you’ve kept this rather clean. That’s impressive in the wilds.” He took a soaked rag and worked to delicately clean all the blood off before applying a fresh layer of salve.

_Thanks to Cicero._ When he went back to his table of supplies she saw him gather a cup of some foreign substance before returning to her. “Aren’t you going to sew me up?” She inquired, curious to why he had skipped the needle and thread.

He smiled gently at her. “No dear, that won’t be necessary. I’ve been practicing restoration magic for quite some time. A cut like that is nothing to mend. Though it will still take some time for all of your flexibility to return.” His eyes went from her hands to her face. “And if you’d like, I can help those bruises as well.”

She sighed with some relief. “Please.” Well, at least that’s one less thing she would have to worry about.

 

 

* * *

 

  

About an hour later Minerva’s hand had been healed and Cicero had finished unloading all the extra coffins. As Cicero finished up talks of payment with Runil she stepped outside to wait for him. She still had a decision to make. Either she would go with Cicero now and let him train her or find a new way to make a living in Skyrim. _I could catch a carriage out of here to a bigger city. Maybe work in a tavern until I find something more suitable._

She approached the back of the wagon where there was now only Cicero’s lone trunk. _The Night Mother,_ she corrected herself. _I wish I could see her._ She was honest enough to admit to herself that she was deeply curious about it all. After the dreams, the voices, all the strange things that had happened… for Cicero to connect them all to the Brotherhood and give them reason was somewhat comforting. And in truth, she had grown fond of him during their time together. He was the strangest man she had ever met, but he was also the first one to take her seriously from the moment he met her, even if in his own odd way. Gods help her, she went nearly her entire life not making a single friend but the moment she’s alone with a damn jester they get on just fine.

She stepped toward the trunk and ran her hand over the lid. The back door to the hall opened and Cicero strolled out, letting it slam shut behind him. She withdrew her hand when she saw him, still a bit wary of overstepping any boundaries, but he smiled at her instead. “Can you feel her?” He asked. “Can you feel the cold touch of the Void?”

She smirked at him. “I don’t feel anything but the trunk.” She looked back over the cabin and tried to imagine what kind of coffin they had her in. She knew next to nothing about the Night Mother, only that she was some deity worshiped by the Dark Brotherhood. But here was her coffin, and surely there was a body in it, right? Had she been a living woman, or perhaps a Daedra? The idea of some Dremora corpse being preserved intrigued her terribly. “Can I see her?”

Cicero chuckled lowly. “So eager I see. Not here. Cicero must get Mother underground before she can be viewed again, lest her precious flesh start to rot. And she is far overdue as it is.”

“I see.” She said quietly. Turning back to him, she crossed her arms. “Well, shouldn’t you be off now?”

Cicero’s face completely fell. “Don’t tell Cicero, you’ve decided not to join us?” She didn’t say anything but wore an amused smile. “You’re so cruel Min, do not play with a fool’s heart.”

She chuckled. “Don’t be so over dramatic.” She smiled as she saw his face lift again. “You really want me to come with you, don’t you?”

“More than anything,” He stepped forward, grasping her hands in his. “It is the will of Sithis!”

“I’m not going to pretend to know anything about that,” she explained, “but they pay well, right? For the kills.”

“Oh yes, very well. You’ll be a wealthy woman in no time if you so choose. But it’s more than that, you’ve been chosen as my sister! After all this time of being alone, watching as my family died one by one the Dread Father has finally sent you to me, right as we enter this new sanctuary.” His eyes were wide and he spoke so pleadingly. “It was meant to be Min. I know you’ll be a fine killer.”

She sighed and watched his expression as he hung in suspense. “All right, fine. I’ll come with you.”

Cicero cheered and guided her hands in a jaunty dance, laughing loudly. “Yes! Yes! Huzzah! Happy day!”

She broke away from him quickly, looking around to make sure no one was watching them. “Okay, enough of that. Be quiet, will you? Do you want all of Falkreath to hear you?” She straightened out the taupe shift she now wore under her cloak. Runil had offered it to her after healing her and she gladly accepted. She would still need to buy some more clothing but at least now she was nearly decent.

“My deepest apologies, sister.” He said with a bow. “Cicero is just so happy!” He ran over to the wagon and practically leaped onto the seat. “Come on, come on, come on!” He whined.

She climbed in next to him. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Cicero would not dream of it.” He got the wagon moving and began to squeal a bit. “I’m just so excited to be home again!”

She smiled at him. _Home. I wonder if anywhere will ever feel like that again._ Now that she had agreed to go with him a nervous anticipation was building up inside of her. Between the idea of learning how to fight, _truly_ fight, the chance to see the Night Mother herself, and the thought of who they might meet within, she was feeling her nerves rising.

Cicero took them back to the road outside of Falkreath, avoiding the city completely. The forest seemed eerily quiet and their wagon especially loud now that they’d unloaded most everything. Again he seemed to know exactly where to go, surprising her when he turned off the road again after only a few minutes. A small dirt path lead down to the base of a rocky outcrop about a half a mile from the road, so overgrown one might not notice it if they weren’t looking for it. At the base of the outcrop a fine mist hung low, keeping them from seeing too far ahead. Cicero stopped the wagon next to a small pool of water so dark it looked nearly black. When he jumped down from his seat he let out a short quick breath.

“Are you nervous?” She asked him.

“Cicero? Nervous? Ha!” He reached out and helped her down. “Merely just preparing myself. One must make a good first impression! Speaking of which, you’ll let Cicero do the talking, yes?”

“Gladly.” She replied as she looked up at the rock face.

He grinned widely at her. “Well then, follow me dear sister. Let us go meet our new family.”

She could feel her heart beating as she walked behind Cicero. _Stop. Everything is fine._ He stepped through the mist into the rock face, and she could see a faint red glow as she approached. When she entered the tunnel behind him, she gasped quietly. Before them stood a massive ebony door. Carved on it was a skeleton, at its feet resting five small skulls, a dagger among them. Above them was a giant skull with a bloody hand print on the forehead. A beautiful red glow was emanating from the print, and Cicero’s smile seemed ever more deadly in the lighting.

_What is the music of life?_

She swallowed as the voice hissed in her ears, dread building within her until Cicero responded and she realized he had heard it too. “Silence, my brother."

_Welcome home._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm almost done with the next chapter now, I'll take a few days to finish and edit but it should be up pretty soon.


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